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I 






















THE LUCK OF THE HOUSE 














































































































































































































































■ 

. 































































% . \ 





















“I thought to capture a beast for my very own” 






ItCR & 


e 


oitsc 


/- ne- J— 




THE STORY OF 
A FAMILY AND A SWORD 


BY 

GLADYS BEDFORD-ATKINS 


PICTURED BY 

GREGORY ORLOFF 


JUNIOR PRESS BOOKS 


albertXwitman 

&" 4co 

CHICAGO 

1938 




Copyright, 1938, by 
Albert Whitman & Company 


PIT 
. B 
Lu. 

C-o^2j 



©ci fl 


Printed in the U.S.A. 


123053 

OCT 1? 1938 


••VJ 









To my sister Ethel 

Without whose encouragement and help 

THIS TALE COULD NOT HAVE BEEN TOLD. 

And to the boys of her school 

FOR WHOM IT WAS WRITTEN. 








FOREWORD 


Here is a tale of a family down through many cen¬ 
turies, and how it spread from one country to another. 
We have all of us a very varied heritage, some from 
one land, some from another, and perhaps few of us can 
trace it back very far. But what does that matter if we 
can remember to be, as the boys of the Donham family 
tried to be, faithful to the best that is in us? 

It is true that there are three or four families in Eng¬ 
land who have held their titles and properties from 
Norman days. But the one of which this story tells is 
purely imaginary, though most of the incidents are 
true, as are the historic settings into which they are 
woven. 

Probably many other interesting things happened to 
many other Donhams, but there is not room enough in 
one book to tell of them all. So it has been necessary 
to select only certain Donhams who carried their Sword 
called The Luc\ of the House as honorably as they 
knew. There was also a Dunham belonging to the 
family who helped in founding one of the youngest of 
the nations, the United States. This branch had no 
sword, only its motto—Always Faithful. 







TABLE OF CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I 

The Rise of the House 

. . 19 

II 

The Luck Comes to the House 

. . 53 

in 

The Road to London . 

. . 85 

IV 

Sanctuary. 

. . 123 

V 

The Luck Goes Adventuring 

. . 147 

VI 

The House Is Divided 

. . 179 

VII 

The Luck Leads the Way . 

. . 205 

VIII 

The Fort Is Ours! 

. . 229 

IX 

The House in the South 

. . 253 

X 

The Luck Comes Home 

. . 281 







LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“I thought to capture a beast for my 
very own”. 


PAGE 

Frontispiece 


A beautiful young woman turned from 

the window. 

Here were the two sons of Count Henri 

“See, Beatrice, we will be playing 
mumblety-peg”. 

He bent the slim blade in an arc 

Each held a short, thick oaken staff 

The boy faced his captor, but with the 

Sword in his hand. 

Then he gently pushed out into deep water 


18 

23 

63 

77 

105 

169 

223 


There Mrs. Denham gave the Luck into 
Frank’s hands. 


277 


















A beautiful young woman turned from the window 

















CHAPTER I 

1084 

THE RISE OF THE HOUSE 

When William of Normandy was 
King of England 

In which Gilbert of Beault comes to England to 
learn knightly courtesy from his father's friend, 
Sir fosselin of Donham Keep, and remains to carry 
on the name, as Gilbert of Donham . 

[ 19 ] 































t 























































































































































































































































■*. I 
































































































- 
















. 















































W HEN Duke William in his pride and might 
went out from his Norman Duchy to take 
England by force of arms from its rightful 
owners, among the vast company of knights who rode 
with him was young Count Henri de Montville and his 
dear friend and brother-in-arms, Sir Josselin de Beault. 

At Senlac, where King Harold and his Saxons made 
their valiant stand, the two young men were in the first 
charge of the Norman horsemen, and as they rode they 
sang, cheering on their comrades. Many went down to 
death in the deep ditch the Saxons had dug about the 
hill where their standard was placed. Many more were 
sorely wounded by Saxon spears, and among these was 
Count Henri de Montville. 


Sir Josselin rescued his friend, and tenderly cared for 
him until his wounds were healed. Duke William, as 
reward for their bravery on that day, bestowed on each 
vast lands and manors of the defeated Saxons. Here 
they retired, and strove to unite their Saxon vassals and 
their Norman followers in building up their lands. But 
in the damp climate of England de Montville suffered 
constantly from his old wounds. He longed for his old 
home in Normandy, until at last he made his plans to 
return, leaving his English lands in the care of Sir 
Josselin. 

The parting was a sad one for the two young men 
who were such close friends. But Henri remembered 
a certain beautiful young girl whose guerdon he had 
received when he left his home; and Josselin confided 
that a Saxon thane, who had become tolerant enough 
of his presence to make Josselin welcome in his house, 
had a very lovely and charming sister, who, he thought, 
did not find him too distasteful! So they planned that 
the sons who some day should be theirs, would be sent 
—each to the other—to be taught courtesy and knightly 
exercises, as was the custom of those days. 

The Manoir de Montville on a spring day in Nor¬ 
mandy some twenty years later, though pinnacled, but¬ 
tressed, walled and moated, did not suggest a fortress 
or war, no—nor even fear of war. Wild rose vines and 
honeysuckle hung over its outer walls, and ivy covered 

[ 22 ] 



Here were the two sons of Count Henri 















. 


/ 







% 


















its towers. The motte—that mound on which all castles 
of the time were erected—was starred with pink daisies; 
while beyond the still blue waters of the moat an apple 
orchard, in all the glory of its scented, rosy blossoms, 
swept down almost to the shores of a little cove, on 
whose beach broke the ever-restless waves of the sea. 

Here, in the spring sunshine among the fragrant blos¬ 
soms of the orchard, were the two sons of Count Henri. 
Raoul, the elder, was but lately returned from the great 
Monastery school near Rouen, to which because of its re¬ 
nown for learning came boys from far countries as well 
as the young Normans of noble birth. With his elbows 
resting on the crotch of a gnarled old apple tree, he 
looked up at his young brother Gilbert, sitting far out 
on a limb of the tree, swinging his legs and glowering 
defiantly. Raoul spoke coaxingly: 

“Dost thou not know there are Saxon lads at the Mon¬ 
astery school? Nay, not Saxon any longer, but English! 
Yes, and fine fellows they are! Good students, follow¬ 
ing in the footsteps of their great long dead king, 
Alfred; and fond of sports they are also. Stiff-necked 
and obstinate often, but I like them. Truly thou wilt, 
likewise!” 

“If thou likest them so well, why doesn’t our father 
send thee to his silly old friend, Josselin, and let me stay 
home in Normandy?” growled Gilbert, as his eyes 
turned lovingly toward the sunlit towers of his home. 
[25] 


“Thou knowest well enough, that I am nearly a man 
grown, and I must now be here to take from his shoul¬ 
ders the burden our father has bravely borne too long. 
And thou must be the one to fulfill his pledge to Sir 
Josselin,” answered Raoul impatiently. 

“Ugh, how can one learn courtesy, in a half-civilized 
country such as that! What did he want to stay there 
for, anyway? And where is his boy to come to my father 
for his training?” Gilbert drew down his black eye¬ 
brows in another scowl. 

“Thou art foolish, Gilbert, and unreasonable! I have 
told thee, they are no more uncivilized than we our¬ 
selves. And as for his not sending a son here, thou 
knowest all he has is a daughter. Mayhap thou might- 
est find favor in her eyes, young Gilbert, an thou re- 
memberest not to scowl like a very demon every time 
thou are crossed in thine own way! ” 

Gilbert’s scowl cleared, and his gay laugh rang out: 
“Time enough to find favor in a maiden’s eyes, when 
I have won my spurs, and have seen many glorious 
adventures in my new land. But look who comes! Thy 
little love, and mine, the best in the world! What should 
I want with a maiden’s favor! ” 

Reaching far out on the branch of the tree he gave it 
a hearty shake, sending a shower of white and pink 
petals down over the heads of the young girl who was 
betrothed to Raoul, and the lovely lady, their mother, 

[26] 


looking scarcely older than the young girl at her side. 

Swiftly the lad swung down from the tree, landing 
lightly beside the two, and turning to the elder, cried: 

“Oh, my Lady Mother, let them not send me to this 
cold, bleak, barren England, so far away from my dear 
sunny Normandy and—and thee, my lady!” His voice 
shook a little as though homesick tears were not far 
away, though he angrily tried to steady it. 

“Dear my son,” Lady de Montville answered, putting 
up her hand and ruffling his dark curls, “thou wilt never 
be far from my heart, however far thou journeyest. 
England is not always cold and bleak. Thy father’s 
friend, Sir Josselin, is a noble brave man. And, very 
dear one,” she continued, laughing gently, perhaps to 
hide the tears in her own eyes for this boy, her youngest, 
“thou must be brave and manly. Learn all he can teach 
thee, but never forget what thy mother has tried to teach 
thee—be always gentle and kind to little children, re¬ 
spect old age, and show courtesy to all people, high 
and low. 

“And now, word has come that the ship is in the 
harbor. I came myself to tell you, that we might have 
one last walk together through the orchard. Thy father 
waits to give thee his blessing, and start thee on thy 
way.” 

Gilbert proved a good sailor. The voyage through 
the rough waters of the Channel, the first sight of the 
[27] 


high white cliffs of the English coast were matters of 
vast interest to him. Even more so was the beaching of 
the ship in the pale, silvery light of an early dawn, for 
on the shore a large party of men and horses was to be 
seen waiting for them to come in. 

Amid the shouting of orders and the creaking of rig¬ 
ging as the small ship was maneuvered in shore, Gilbert 
stood by the rail of the poop deck wondering about the 
men, and his probable reception by them. For though 
later on he would be only one of the pages in the castle, 
now he was the son of his father, the dearest friend of 
Sir Josselin. 

One of the party on the shore, a man tall and broad, 
wrapped in a long cloak, walked to and fro a little 
apart from the others, stopping now and again to watch 
the progress of the ship. 

“It might be Sir Josselin himself,” thought Gilbert, 
“but more like ’tis some knight of his household. Yet 
he might well come to meet my father’s son. I wonder 
how long we must travel to reach his castle and lands.” 

A heavy footfall on the deck beside him jarred him 
from his musing. 

“We are beached, young master,” spoke the burly 
ship’s master, Oswald. “Yonder would be those who 
come to meet thee. A goodly company, but there is 
much in our ship to be carried with them on their re¬ 
turn, and they will need many a sumpter mule, and 

[ 28 ] 


many a strong arm to protect it on the way, that I’ll 
warrant! Come now, I will put thee ashore, dry and 
safe, and see thee in the care of them to whom thou 
goest, that I may so tell Count Henri when I return.” 

And on the shoulders of sturdy Master Oswald, young 
Gilbert rode through the last of the water between the 
ship and the land where he was to see many adventures. 
He would come to love this land. He and his heirs were 
to live in it for generation after generation, until at 
last certain of them would journey on to make them¬ 
selves homes in a newer land that in those days was not 
even dreamed of. 

As Oswald swung the boy to his feet on the pebbly 
shore, the man in the long cloak came down the beach, 
both hands outstretched. He had a ruddy, clear-skinned 
face, lit by kindly grey eyes. He wore light chain armor 
under his long dark blue cloak, and his great broad¬ 
sword was fastened to his side with a wide, silver-stud¬ 
ded belt of crimson leather. 

“So, here is the son of my dear friend, Henri. Wel¬ 
come to our sweet land!” he greeted Gilbert cheerily. 

It was Sir Josselin! Gilbert’s interest grew. Perhaps 
this knight would be all that his father had told of him. 
Perhaps he would not hate England so much after all. 
The sun was bright, the smell of the sea was salt in his 
nostrils, and there was a hint of something elusive—a 
sweet perfume drifting down from the countryside. 

[ 29 ] 


He made a courteous reply to Sir Josselin, answered 
his inquiries about the voyage, and gave him messages 
of greeting from his father. 

During this time there was much hurrying back and 
forth, the men from the ship carrying in great bales and 
bundles of goods, to be packed and strapped on the 
waiting mules by Sir Josselin’s servants. For they must 
be off speedily, in order to make the most of the day¬ 
light for their journey. 

Left to himself, Gilbert wandered here and there, in¬ 
specting the horses; trying now and then to talk with 
the men, but finding them in the most part either too 
busy to stop for talk; or that the language they spoke 
was not the French to which he was accustomed, being 
mixed with English words or pronounced with an accent 
strange to his ears. 

At last all was ready. Master Oswald, who had been 
deep in conversation with Sir Josselin, came to the boy: 

“Master Gilbert, the load is packed. The horses are 
saddled, and Sir Josselin hath given me a space in which 
to bid ye farewell. I will tell thy good father, Count 
Henri, that thou fared through the voyage like an old 
sailor, and bore thyself manly in thy greeting to his 
friend. ’Twill doubtless please him. The day is fair, 
thou’lt make good speed. God give the good hap, sir.” 

“I give thee thanks, good Master Oswald. Tell my 
father I shall try to bear myself bravely as his son, and 

[ 30 ] 


take my dear love to my Lady Mother. See, I have gath¬ 
ered some yellow flowers from shrubs, back on the cliff. 
Take them to her, I pray thee, Master Oswald, though 
I fear they will fade long ere thou art back; and take 
these shells and bright pebbles from the shore.” 

So they rode away, Gilbert by Sir Josselin’s side at the 
head of the train and mounted on a splendid black horse. 
A wave of homesickness swept over him as he took one 
last backward look at the ship, already weighing anchor 
for its return trip. But the sun was shining on the golden 
gorse of the uplands, the perfume from hawthorne 
hedges filled the air with warm sweetness. Larks, sing¬ 
ing to the skies as they rose from the fields, carried his 
spirits high with them. Behind, with clatter of hoofs, 
jingle of spurs, and clang of armor rode Sir Josselin’s 
retinue of men-at-arms and serving men. 

Hour after hour they rode, through sunlit plains, over 
rolling downs, into dark and shadowy forests. Here 
the men-at-arms scattered and rode ahead, keeping sharp 
watch to right and left for possible marauders, or foe- 
men. Now and again they passed through a clustering 
group of small cottages. Once Gilbert caught a glimpse 
of a gray donjon keep rising grimly from its motte, its 
narrow, slotted archer’s windows squinting out over the 
surrounding countryside. Then once more they were on 
a highroad that stretched out ahead, like a long ribbon. 

“This,” said Sir Josselin to Gilbert, “is called Wading 

[ 3i ] 


Street. It is told that it was built first by Roman soldiers. 
I know not, but it runs mile after mile, far into the 
north. And now,” as they crossed over a stone bridge 
that spanned a small river, “just beyond this river lies 
an abbey, where we will stop this night for rest and 
food. I’ll warrant thou are tired and hungry. The abbot 
and the monks are godly men and hospitable, ever ready 
to entertain travelers.” 

Wide, tilled fields were here. Cattle, knee-deep in 
lush meadows, lifted their heads as the cavalcade passed. 
The travelers drew rein near a group of wooden build¬ 
ings clustered about a simple, humble little church. A 
monk came from a door: 

“God give thee welcome to this His house, good sir 
knight. Dismount, that we may offer rest and refresh¬ 
ment to thee and thy men in His Name.” 

A sturdy, pleasant-faced esquire offered to help Gil¬ 
bert dismount from his big horse, but the boy, weary 
though he was from the long hard ride, still retained his 
Norman pride. Should he be helped from his horse, 
he who had ridden since he had been big enough to sit 
upright on the cantle of his father’s saddle? And by one 
of these barbarians? No, indeed! He made a great 
effort to spring down, but his legs, cramped and weary 
from long hours in the saddle, buckled under him, and 
only for the kindly hand of Ranulf, the esquire, he 
would have fallen. 


[32] 


They tramped up and down until the circulation was 
restored in Gilbert’s legs once more, and then entered 
the monks’ refectory, where the rest of the party was 
already partaking of the simple fare offered by the 
monks. A fire roared on the huge open hearth, warm¬ 
ing the room from the chill night air, and sending bright 
dancing light flickering on walls and the low ceiling. 
Here the smoke caught it, reflecting strange, distorted 
shadows among the dark rafters. Gilbert looking about 
compared it very unfavorably with the great church in 
Rouen, and another great monastery that he had seen in 
Normandy. 

Ranulf laughed, in a friendly, teasing fashion, “Oh, 
we are very rough and wild barbarians, but we can bet¬ 
ter this, Sir Norman! After all, this is but a small hand¬ 
ful of the good fathers. Wait till you see some of the 
fine abbeys that are rising fast in our land, and I’ll war¬ 
rant that there is no greater stronghold in all Normandy 
than that which is being built in London town!” 

When the weary travelers had finished the last of 
their bread and cheese and ale, they were shown to small 
and bare cells furnished with rude pallets piled high 
with fresh sweet-smelling hay; a small bench, and a cru¬ 
cifix on the wall. In front of it Gilbert knelt and sleep¬ 
ily muttered an evening prayer, before he tumbled on 
his bed. Wrapped in his own warm cloak, he slept as 
sweetly as though under the softest of silken coverlets. 

[ 33 ] 


Morning saw them well on their way again, before 
the dew on the grass was dried. When the shadows were 
lengthening, and the birds chirping their goodnights 
from the trees, Sir Josselin called to Gilbert who had 
dropped back to ride with his new friend Ranulf: 

“Yonder, ahead of us is London town, where we will 
sleep this night. Show him where to look, Ranulf.” 
And following his friend’s hand, Gilbert saw in the 
misty sunset light the gabled roofs of many houses and 
towers of churches, for the Normans were great church 
builders. And all over the land were rising the great 
abbeys and churches that were for centuries the glory 
of England. Dim in the distance bulked a mighty mass 
of masonry: 

“Look,” said Ranulf, “there stands King William’s 
great, new castle of London; ’tis the strongest fortress 
in the land!” 

That night they slept in the house of a friend of Sir 
Josselin. Gilbert was too tired to notice much beyond 
the fact that they passed through beautiful gardens, and 
that they were served a bounteous supper by the light of 
flaring torches stuck high on the walls of the room. 

A thick fog hung over the city in the morning, and 
the party made its way slowly down the narrow, crooked 
muddy streets toward the city gates. Early though it 
was, there were already many people about, some 
mounted, some afoot—Normans, English, nobles and 

[ 34 ] 


serfs—all intent on their own business, and too accus¬ 
tomed to the passing of such a cavalcade as Sir Josselin’s 
to give them more than a glance. But Gilbert gazed 
about him with wonder and delight at the sights and 
sounds of his strange new world. 

Beyond the city walls the sun struggled through the 
heavy veil of fog, and they rode through a lovely coun¬ 
try of rolling hills and valleys where little streams spar¬ 
kled and danced. At last they turned from the high¬ 
ways onto a grassy ride, skirting a deep forest. Through 
the leaves the sunlight dappled the road with lights and 
shadows. Beneath the trees a thick carpet of bluebells 
spread. Yet through all the still loveliness there was a 
feeling of impending danger, for the men-at-arms who 
had but lately laughed and joked among themselves 
now rode silent and watchful, grim-faced and intent, 
with swords loose and ready for action. 

“What do they fear, Ranulf?” asked Gilbert, curi¬ 
ously. 

“They do not fear,” returned Ranulf scornfully. “To 
be sure, there are many who might set upon a company 
with so heavily laden a pack train, but there would be 
no fear of such by Sir Josselin nor by any of his men! 
No, ’tis, I think, that they look for an attack by one 
Hugo Fitz Osbern of Tiverly, a rascally knight of mean 
disposition, who hath long hated and envied Sir Josse¬ 
lin—” 


[35] 


Interrupting him suddenly, an arrow sped by with a 
sharp, whistling sound. Instantly the loosened swords 
were out. Grim faces grew even grimmer, though some 
hardened into ferocious grins. The pack train was driven 
in among the trees, to stand concealed by the bushes. 
Sir Josselin ordered Ranulf to take Gilbert and two of 
the men-at-arms in with them. 

“Ranulf,” he said, “I give my friend’s son into thy 
charge as a sacred trust. The pack also. Guard them 
well, ’tis as honourable a post as any in the coming 
fight, though I doubt not thou wouldst far rather be in 
the thick of it. I think this will be that same vile scoun¬ 
drel, Hugo Fitz Osbern, that is ever molesting us.” He 
turned his charger and rode to the front of his men. 

Just beyond a slight turn of the path, there rose a 
rocky ridge. From behind it there now sprang a score 
or more armed and mounted men who fell on Sir Josse- 
lin’s band silently and fiercely, and with bared swords. 
But Sir Josselin, thanks to the carelessly sped arrow, was 
warned and ready, and men and horses came together 
with a great clash of steel, trampling of hoofs, and loud 
cries. 

From under the trees, Gilbert and Ranulf eagerly 
watching, could see little for the clouds of dust that rose 
from the road. Ranulf had stationed himself between 
Gilbert and any chance arrow that might fly their way, 
though the fighting was being carried on entirely with 
[36] 


sword and batde-ax. He was standing in his stirrups 
in an effort to see which way the fight was going; while 
Gilbert, unable to see anything, sat kicking his heels 
against his mount, to whom his excitement was rapidly 
being conveyed. Under the pressure of rein and heel, 
the horse grew more and more restive. Suddenly he 
backed, reared, wheeled and bolted for the open spaces. 

Covered by the noise of the fighting, Ranulf heard 
nothing. One of the men-at-arms caught at the horse’s 
bridle, but missed it. Down to the road galloped the 
frightened beast. At the same time, an apparently rider¬ 
less horse trotted out from the cloud of dust. Gilbert 
had by dint of coaxing hand and soft voice, soothed his 
nervous animal and slowed him down. He now saw, 
what to his way of thinking, was an excellent oppor¬ 
tunity to capture a mount for his very own. So he rode 
after the riderless horse, which had dropped from a trot 
to a walk. At Gilbert’s call it stopped and turned its 
head. Gilbert caught at the dragging reins, then he saw 
that the horse’s rider, wounded and unconscious, was 
held by his foot in the off stirrup. Gilbert looked back. 
Ranulf was galloping after him, while the fight on the 
road had changed to a rout, with Sir Josselin and his 
men in headlong pursuit. 

“Ranulf, haste!” shouted the boy, “I have two prison¬ 
ers!” 

They both dismounted, and Ranulf bent to look at the 
[ 37 ] 


wounded man’s face. “My faith!” he exclaimed. “If it 
is not Hugo himself, I am no true man! ” 

“What is this?” broke in Sir Josselin, who had ridden 
back in search of them after having successfully driven 
off the attacking force. “Hugo, do ye say? I believed 
one of his men must have carried him off after he was 
unhorsed in the fight. For among those that escaped 
one rode double, and Hugo was not of those left on the 
road. What has happened here?” 

“I think, Sir Josselin, our lad from Normandy plans 
to be dubbed knight before ever he acts as thy page, 
for ’twas he who captured yon false knight! And I 
stand before thee as one who has, alas, failed his trust! 
For indeed Gilbert was down on the road, ere I even 
saw he was no longer with me.” 

“Nay, Sir Josselin, I am alone to blame! My horse 
became affrighted by the noise and I fear that I was 
none too calm, and struck him. He—tried to run away!” 
confessed Gilbert, “I thought to capture a beast for my 
very own, when I saw the riderless one coming along.” 

“And so thou shalt, an my farrier says he is a good 
beast!” cried Sir Josselin, pleased at the boy’s pluck and 
honesty. “If he is not, by my faith thou shalt have the 
pick of my stable, save only this noble friend whom I 
ride myself! As for Ranulf, thy spurs are a long way 
from thee, an thou canst not guard a trust more safely, 
Sir Esquire!” 


[38] 


“But ’twas truly my fault, Sir Josselin! Do not blame 
him.” 

“By thy plea, and that we hold Hugo of Tiverly by 
thy prowess, Ranulf shalt be forgiven. But now we must 
make speed, lest those who escaped bring back a larger 
force to the rescue!” 

That evening ere the sun had set, they rode down a 
lovely valley, between wide green meadows, shaded by 
great oaks. They passed lowly farm and cottage; crossed 
a river bordered with golden flowers amid glossy green 
leaves; through a small village of clustered cottages. 
Ahead there arose a hill curtained with woods, and 
crowned by a massive stone keep, its towers silhouetted 
against the deep blue of the northern sky. Here had 
been a little village or hamlet guarded by a fortress on 
the hill, for long years before ever Duke William and his 
Normans invaded England. The Saxons simply called 
it Donham, from their two Saxon words, don—a fort, 
and ham—a village. 

It had been one of the forfeited estates bestowed on 
Gilbert’s father. Henri saw the similarity in his own 
name of Montville. His sense of humour, as well as a 
desire to make a friendly gesture toward his Saxon vas¬ 
sals had combined to suggest that he keep the old Saxon 
name. When he returned to Normandy leaving every¬ 
thing to Sir Josselin, Sir Josselin had chosen it as his 
home. 


The road curved slowly upward through the trees. 
At one hand the side sloped steeply to the river and 
meadows below. On the other it rose, a rocky precipi¬ 
tous wall topped by a palisade. 

From the top of the formidable gatehouse blocking 
the road, fluttering scarfs greeted them. 

“A-ha!” laughed Sir Josselin, “my little maid is 
watching for our return, to see her new playfellow, no 
doubt.” 

Gilbert looked disdainful. The idea of being regarded 
as a possible playmate for a little girl was not pleasing. 

“Be not alarmed,” chuckled Ranulf softly, “the Lady 
Aedgyth is no puling baby! She has been all the son 
our brave Sir Josselin hath.” 

The great portcullis slowly lifted, and they clattered 
into the courtyard of the castle, where the weary horses 
were led away. By the side of Sir Josselin, Gilbert 
mounted the narrow circular stairway built into the 
thickness of the wall. It curved sharply upward to the 
right, so that one man standing on the stair might de¬ 
fend it with the sweep of his sword, whereas any attack¬ 
ing foeman trying to force an entrance must needs be 
handicapped by the curve, and could only thrust with 
his weapon. They passed through the portcullis room. 
Here stood the great windlass for winding the chains 
that raised and lowered the heavy grill. The two finally 
emerged on the broad parapet, where a small but stately 
[ 40 ] 


little lady, clad in a blue camelot robe, with flowing 
sleeves of white embroidered in silver, and a small blue 
cap on a mass of shining wind-blown yellow curls, 
moved toward them. 

“Greetings, my lords,” said she, in a most dignified 
manner. But hardly had she spoken when her dignity 
disappeared, and she sprang into her father’s out¬ 
stretched arms, smothering him with kisses and golden 
curls. At last he put her on her feet, and turned to greet 
his wife, the Lady Ethelfleda, who had smilingly fol¬ 
lowed the child, Lady Aedgyth gave her attention to Gil¬ 
bert, scanning him gravely with her serene, blue eyes. 
Finally she reached out one small hand. 

“I like you, boy-from-over-the-sea, thou mayest kiss 
my hand.” Gilbert obeyed the order with the courtesy 
his mother had taught him, and the Lady Ethelfleda, 
who had moved over to them in time to witness the 
performance, smiled down at him. Slipping her slim, 
white fingers under his chin, she turned up his face 
and kissed him, saying, 

“Welcome to Donham Keep, Gilbert of Normandy. 
May you find England a happy home. I hope thou and 
Aedgyth wilt be friends.” 

“Canst hawk? And chase the deer?” Aedgyth in¬ 
quired when her mother had gone back to Sir Josselin. 
“I can climb almost to the top of the gatehouse on the 
big ivy vine! Dost think you can do better than that?” 


“I can but try! ” promised Gilbert in return. 

In the Great Hall that evening near the blazing fire 
Gilbert sat with Aedgyth and two pages of the castle, 
boys of his own age. They soon became good friends, 
telling of exploits in the castle, on the river, in Nor¬ 
mandy; of friends and relatives, of tourneys and town 
fairs—all the thousand and one things of which life is 
made. 

So the long spring twilight turned to night, there was 
a jongleur singing a long tale of old heroes of the land; 
a monk saying an Ave; and then—for Gilbert, after 
his long journey with its new sights and sounds, new 
friends and places—all was blotted out in deep sleep. 

Spring turned to summer—long summer days, the 
sun hot on the fields, making the river the most desir¬ 
able spot in their world for the boys of the castle. For 
not only could they catch fish, but in a deep, quiet pool 
they could swim and dive to their hearts’ content. They 
were cool and clean again when they donned their sim¬ 
ple garments to cross the river to the Abbey of Saint 
Cross, where the good fathers taught them Latin and 
French, reading and writing. 

At first, Gilbert was a little resentful of this “monkish 
learning”, as he called it. But when he found how cus¬ 
tomary it was among the Saxon lads of noble birth, and 

[ 42 ] 


how much more they already knew than he, he flung 
his bright young mind whole-heartedly into the tasks. 
That a Norman should be outdone by a Saxon seemed 
unthinkable, was his first idea. But little by little, as 
they worked together and played together, he forgot 
they were Norman and Saxon, and they all became 
English. 

Summer slipped into winter. Boylike, they hunted 
rabbits in the fields. But they also rode into the forests 
with the castle huntsmen for red deer and wild boar. 
They learned to handle a bow or a boar spear accurately 
and well; returning to the Great Hall, they huddled 
about the fire, full of stories of the chase for their little 
Lady Aedgyth, though in truth she frequently made one 
of their party, and rode as well as the boys. 

And so the seasons rolled around. Ranulf, for whom 
Gilbert still held a great admiration, was knighted, and 
left the Castle for his own Manor, which he held under 
fief to Sir Josselin. Another of the esquires had al¬ 
so left, and Gilbert had begun to take over some of 
the duties of these two. He still waited on his lord and 
lady at table, but now he also had the care of Sir Josse- 
lin’s great war horse, considered among the esquires and 
pages the highest of honors, as a war horse was one of 
a knight’s most valued possessions. He also assisted Sir 
Josselin’s seneschal, Sir Reginald, when he made his 
nightly rounds of the castle to see that all was well, that 

[ 43 ] 


the gates were barred, and the guards on watch. Then, 
rolling himself in his cloak, Gilbert slept at the door of 
Sir Josselin’s chamber, so that none might enter without 
waking him. 

On a warm summer day three years after Gilbert’s 
arrival, Hugo of Tiverly, now called Hugh and held 
prisoner ever since that time, escaped from his prison. 
He had been confined in a small, strong tower, a part 
of the outer wall, that had come to be known as Hugh’s 
Tower, though many had even forgotten why. A man 
who had carried him food once a day, was found lying 
on the floor unconscious and could tell no tale. He had 
lain there nearly two days before he was found, so little 
had become the concern about the once dreaded Hugo 
of Tiverly. 

But now Hugh was gone, and it would not be long 
before he would arouse his own people again, and would 
return for vengeance. The great bell in Donham Keep 
clanged out its summons to the surrounding country¬ 
side, calling Donham’s vassals to its defense. The guards 
on walls and towers were doubled. Grim old Sir Regi¬ 
nald kept the armourers hard at work fashioning 
stronger bolts and bars for the outer gates and the port¬ 
cullis, and making ready all defences. 

The courtyard rang with the clamor of arms and 
armour, and the clatter of hoofs, for already messengers 
were coming with news of raids by Hugh and his men 

[ 44 ] 


on the villages and outlying manors. Others were going 
forth to summon the knights who held their lands under 
Sir Josselin; and these with their retainers, men-at-arms, 
and families, were gathering within the castle. Once 
some of Hugh’s men were bold enough to appear on the 
Abbey road in an attempt to raid Donham village itself, 
almost under the castle’s walls. But they had been suc¬ 
cessfully driven off by a swift foray of horsemen under 
Sir Ranulf whose own manor had been burned to the 
ground in Hugh’s first raid. Ranulf, his young wife and 
baby, and most of the inmates had escaped safely to the 
protection of his overlord’s castle. 

Crowded days passed swiftly, thrilling days to Gilbert, 
busy all day long. One morning, snatching a few 
moments, he ran up the stairway to the top of the gate¬ 
house. Here he could often find Lady Aedgyth, look¬ 
ing like a boy herself in her short tunic; either watch¬ 
ing the preparations, or gazing out over the surrounding 
country, eagerly hoping to be the first to spy out signs of 
some of Hugh’s men. 

“Oh, Gilbert,” she cried petulantly, as she caught sight 
of him, “why wasn’t I a boy? I want to be at my father’s 
side whenever an enemy attacks us. Instead I shall be 
hurried to a safe place in the castle, or at best to help 
those who might be wounded!” 

“Thou wouldst be too young!” mocked Gilbert. 
“And besides, thou wouldst be far from here. Knowest 

[ 45 ] 


thou not that, even as I am here, an thou were a boy 
thou wouldst be in Normandy with my father according 
to the promises our fathers made in their youth? Oh no, 
’tis best to be here, even though it is only to tend those 
who may be hurt in defence of Donham! And I prom- 
ise thee, Aedgyth, I shalt fight much more bravely with 
thee watching me. Thou must give me thy guerdon to 
wear!” 

“And why shouldst I give thee my guerdon? Mayhap, 
my father wilt not let thee go forth from the castle 
either,” retorted Aedgyth, with an indignant toss of her 
fair curls. “For all thou art grown so tall, and art doing 
so many of an esquire’s duties, thou art but a boy still. 
There are esquires more near a man’s estate who might 
wish a guerdon from me!” 

Gilbert was aghast at the prospect of a refusal to allow 
him to join the fighting men. While he was searching 
his mind for a fittingly scathing answer, the two angry 
youngsters heard a faint wavering blast of a horn out¬ 
side the gates. 

Their irritation forgotten, they rushed to the parapet. 
Below on the road approaching the gate, stood a weary 
horse white with foam. Its rider sat limply on the sad¬ 
dle, while the portcullis was being raised. 

Horse and rider soon disappeared from their sight, 
nor could they picture what was taking place under the 
great arched passage. “Sir Josselin—” gasped the mes- 

[ 46 ] 


senger, “tell Sir Jasselin—I saw Hugh—a great force— 
coming by Abingdon—make haste!” Then lifting his 
hand slowly as though it was a terrific weight, he 
brought it to his shoulder. A look—half surprise, half 
anger—crossed his face. He reeled in the saddle and fell, 
blood gushing from a wound in which the broken end 
of an arrow still protruded. But he had accomplished 
his errand, he had warned his master of the approaching 
danger. Kindly hands lifted him and bore him within, 
to be cared for by the women. 

All the garrison were called to their posts, and Gilbert 
in wild haste dashed in search of Sir Josselin, only to 
receive a bitter disappointment. For Sir Josselin glanced 
at him impatiently: 

“I have not time for thee now, boy. Stay thou here 
in the castle, thou art far too young to go forth with the 
fighting men,” he said shortly, and turned away to his 
captains. 

Bitterly disappointed and scowling blackly with in¬ 
dignation, Gilbert was about to leave the courtyard in 
search of some obscure corner where he could nurse his 
hurt pride in solitude, when one of the bowmen from 
the tower, breathless with haste, hurried up to Sir 
Josselin. 

“My lord,” he cried, “a great cloud of dust rises on the 
road to the east! Sir Reginald sends thee word ’tis the 
spears of Sir Hugh of Tiverly!” 

[ 47 ] 


Swiftly Gilbert made his way among the gathering 
soldiery in the court to the stairway leading to the para¬ 
pets. At least if he might not fight, he could watch from 
the best point of vantage. He picked, the tower where 
the great silken banner embroidered by the Lady Ethel- 
fleda and her maids, snapped and fluttered in the breeze 
blowing away the morning mists. Here in a sheltered 
niche, he found, as he had expected, Lady Aedgyth. 
She tilted her curly head at him and laughed mis¬ 
chievously, but said nothing about his not being among 
the fighting men, and gradually Gilbert’s scowl van¬ 
ished. 

Together, they watched the approach of Hugh’s 
forces. Through the curtain of dust there was the gleam 
and glitter of armor, tossing pennons waved, scarlet, 
green and gold. Lumbering in the rear came the great 
battering rams, and mortars for throwing fire and rocks. 

Then forth from the massed army, a single knight 
rode up to the gate of the castle. Some fifty paces away 
he raised his voice: 

“Ho, warden of the gate! Speech with Sir Josselin of 
Donham Keep! From Sir Hugh Fitz Osbern of Tiv- 
erly!” 

The portcullis was raised, the massive oaken gates 
opened, and the seneschal of Donham Keep rode out to 
parley with Hugh’s messenger. 

Hugh offered battle in the meadow below, or the cas- 

[ 48 ] 


tie would be besieged. Sir Reginald answered swiftly: 

“Sir Josselin can withstand any siege Hugh of Tiverly 
can raise. Nevertheless, go thou back to him with word 
that Sir Josselin of Donham Keep intends, not only to 
give battle, but to destroy Hugh’s power once and for 
always. There will be no quarter given, nor any asked!” 

While Sir Hugh’s emissary once more rejoined the 
waiting forces below, the seneschal sat his pawing, im¬ 
patient charger. Then out through the gate rode Sir 
Josselin, on his great war horse. Behind him came the 
esquires, captains, and men-at-arms of his own house¬ 
hold, followed by the knights and men-at-arms who 
owed allegiance to him. 

As the horses clattered through the gate, from para¬ 
pet and tower the bowmen sent out a cloud of arrows, 
speeding over their heads, toward Hugh’s massed force. 
The sudden onrush of death-dealing arrows halted 
Hugh’s men, who were striving to bring up their heavy 
rams and mortars to position. And now Sir Josselin 
and his men charged on toward Sir Hugh’s force and 
the sound of battle filled the air with clamor. 

From the tower, Gilbert, with Lady Ethelfleda, little 
Lady Aedgyth, the women of the household and the 
young pages, watched the conflict surging back and 
forth on the road and meadow. Now one side pre¬ 
vailed, now the other, when to their horror, they saw 
Sir Josselin and a few of his followers cut off from the 

[ 49 ] 


main body by a clever feint of one of Hugh’s captains. 
One by one the few men with him fell. Through the 
clangor of sword and battle axe, war cries, trampling of 
hooves, the groans and screams of the wounded and 
dying, Sir Josselin’s call for succor was unheard. 

Lady Ethelfleda, white with fear for her husband, but 
calm and brave still, turned to send Gilbert to the re¬ 
serves at the gate with word of Sir Josselin’s peril. But 
the boy was no longer there. She heard the ring of 
racing feet on the stone stair, stood for a minute listen¬ 
ing. Then Aedgyth’s voice called to her excitedly: 

“Lady Mother, look, look! Our Gilbert hath gone 
himself to my father’s aid! See, he hath a helmet on his 
head, a sword in his hand! Oh, Mother, the Saints 
give him strength and grace, that he cometh in time! ” 

Together they watched, breathlessly. The daring lad 
had swung himself down over the walls by the clinging 
vines, and landed just behind Sir Josselin. The latter now 
alone and afoot, stood astride the fallen body of his last 
retainer, coolly facing his enemy, with only his battle 
axe in his hand; his great broadsword was broken 
as a vanquished foeman had fallen on the blade. 

Shouting, “A Donham to the rescue! Ho, a Don- 
ham!” Gilbert sprang to his lord’s side. His sword 
swung, and descended just in time to strike down an 
enemy, who had thought to attack Sir Josselin from the 
rear. Side by side the boy and the belted knight stood, 


the sword and the battle axe keeping clear a circle about 
them. At last high above the din came the welcome 
shout. 

“Rescue, rescue for our lord! Ho, Donham!” And 
straight through the ranks of Tiverly came the men of 
Donham. With the clash of steel on steel blow after blow 
fell until, as says the old chronicle, “their sword arms 
sank, because there were left none of Hugh Fitz 
Osbern’s men for the sword to strike!” 

It was some hours later that Gilbert, still quivering 
with excitement and weariness, stood in the Great Hall 
with his chosen companions. With his eyes shining, he 
finished his account of his adventures— “And thereon 
the Saints did prosper us, for Hugh fell before Sir Regi¬ 
nald’s attack, and his vassals, such as were left, took 
flight. Our knights pursued them, but they would not 
stay for further battle! 

“Sir Josselin saith,” he continued proudly, “he would 
have given me knighthood on the field, but that he 
wishes my dear father and mother to be present at the 
addubment! And thou, Aedgyth, wilt not now give me 
thy guerdon, that I may be thy knight?” 

Aedgyth, flushing rosily to the roots of her curly, 
golden hair, answered softly: “Why Gilbert, indeed thou 
art my veriest own knight! Did I not hear thee shout 
‘A Donham to the rescue’ instead of the Norman name 
Montville, as thou dashed to my father’s side? I think 

[5i] 


England and Donham Keep hath won another Norman 
for our own! ” 

So it was that Gilbert de Montville won his spurs in 
England though a boy, and later still won the sweet 
little Lady Aedgyth for his wife, even as his brother 
Raoul had foretold. And as Sir Gilbert of Donham, 
he lived through many adventurous years, leaving be¬ 
hind him at the last strong sons to help build the king¬ 
dom, and hand on down to their sons, his valor and his 
lady’s beauty. 



[52] 













CHAPTER II 

1189 

THE LUCK COMES TO THE HOUSE 


When a Plantagenet King Followed 
the Cross to the Holy Land 

In which one hundred years after Gilbert de Mont - 
ville came to England, another Donham journeys far 
and wins through faith and \nightly courtesy the 
friendship of a noble enemy. Jocelyn is given a 
Sword called The Luck of the House. 

[ 53 ] 
















OCELYN, son of Baron John of Donham, was the 



bearer of a name that had become a custom in his 


t/ family since the days when the first Josselin had 
followed Duke William from Normandy to new lands 
and possessions in England. The boy sat at one end of 
a broad seat in the high embrasure in a window in the 
Crusaders’ castle of Acre. In those days all the knights 
of Christendom were gathered in Palestine striving to 
regain the Holy Land from the pagans. 

Jocelyn hugged his silken clad knees with his arms, 
talking eagerly: 

“And, Lady Beatrice,” he continued to the girl who 
sat at the other end, “from the top of that wall where 
I had climbed, I saw rare sights! It looked more like a 


[ 55 ] 


county fair than aught else I have ever seen. There were 
camels laden with food stuffs, their drivers wearing gay 
colored turbans; and stalls full of silks, beautiful rugs, 
wonderful brass lamps, strange fruits and sweets—oh, 
and a juggler, who made a tree grow whilst I watched. 

“Then while I lay flattened out under the low 
branches of the big tree, so that none might see me,” he 
chuckled, “either from without or within—and that 
was most necessary, for had Messire Gervase caught me, 
I know not what would have happened—there came 
down the street a company of Saracens, mounted on the 
fleetest, most beautiful horses! The horses were gaily 
caparisoned; the men wore burnouses and turbans of 
many gorgeous colors, and there were jewels flashing 
from their turbans, and from the hilts of their swords! 

“Oh, would I were a man grown! I should go forth 
and fight these Unbelievers, and some day I should 
bring back to you a gleaming jewel; and for myself, I 
would wear a jeweled sword by my side!” 

“That would be brave! But Father Bernard says ‘too 
many forget in the zest for fighting, that it is to free the 
Lord Jesus’ birthplace from the Infidel, that we are 
here.’ ” 

“Well, perhaps I might take an emir prisoner, then 
Father Bernard could teach him to be a Christian, and 
he would give me the jewels, because I had opened the 
way for him to see God’s truth!” 


“I wonder,” pondered the little girl, “why that 
wouldn’t be the best way for everyone to do it!” 

“See,” interrupted Jocelyn, “the sun is getting low, 
shall we go down into the garden ere dark comes, and 
I will show you where I climbed?” 

“Lady Elena will not like that I do so; she says I will 
never be a great lady if I mend not my manners, that I 
had better have been a boy. I think so too,” she contin¬ 
ued thoughtfully. “Shall we let Rene come with us?” 
Beatrice slid down from the high window. Rene was 
the second page in attendance on Lady Elena and Lady 
Beatrice, a French boy of whom Jocelyn was very 
jealous. 

“No, Lady Beatrice, Rene would weep, an he skinned 
his hands climbing the wall, and besides would run 
to tell Messire Gervase to have me punished! ” 

Jocelyn’s father, grief-stricken at the death of his be¬ 
loved wife, had turned from all his familiar pursuits, 
and leaving his castle, lands, and the care of his younger 
children in charge of his brother, had “taken the Cross” 
with King Richard and sailed for the Holy Land. With 
him went Jocelyn, his eldest son barely ten years old. 

Two years had passed, and still the Crusaders were no 
nearer their goal. Time and again, they had been de¬ 
feated by the powerful, clever generalship of Saladin, 
the great Saracen leader. During these years Jocelyn 
had remained as page in the great fortress castle at 

[ 57 1 


Acre. A high-spirited lad, straightforward and honor¬ 
able though a leader in all mischief, he had speedily 
become a favorite with most of the inmates. 

Now he parted the arras or tapestry hanging over the 
door, and peered out. There was no one in sight. So 
he and Beatrice tiptoed across the hall, through a door 
and so out into the garden, heavy with the scent of roses 
warmed in the sun. The shadows were beginning to 
lengthen; soon there would be others coming out to 
enjoy the cool of the evening. Hand in hand the two 
ran to the gate, where the warder, accustomed to the 
outer bailey being used as a playground, readily passed 
them through. 

“It is almost a stair,” said Jocelyn, as they reached the 
shelter of a buttress of the wall, “I will go ahead where 
I can give you my hand, and pull you up that first long 
step.” In another minute the two were safely atop the 
broad wall, almost hidden from view by the drooping 
branches of a tamarisk tree. Here they could look across 
the wide street to where a busy mart had grown up, to 
satisfy the needs of the castle folk. 

“Oh, Jocelyn, does it not seem like a dream, all that 
gay color and sound yonder? The sweet perfume of 
these blossoms—I wish we might see some of the horse¬ 
men!” 

Jocelyn wriggled uncomfortably. Already his con¬ 
science was beginning to trouble him. 

[ 58 ] 


“I think perchance we had better return now,” he 
said, swinging his legs to the inside of the wall, pre¬ 
paratory to jumping down, “some one might miss you; 
and there will be sweets back there in the garden,” he 
added coaxingly. 

“But listen,” she answered him, “do you not hear, 
Jocelyn? Horses! I must see them!” In her excitement 
she had risen to her feet, and balanced by a light hold 
on a branch, leaned eagerly forward. Jocelyn hurriedly 
reached out to pull her back: 

“Lady Beatrice, be careful!” But it was too late, for 
in her desire to see she overbalanced herself. The little 
branch was only enough to break her fall; and Jocelyn 
sat alone, stiff with fright; while she lay, a little limp 
heap at the foot of the wall! He looked back. No one 
was in sight, but he did not dare leave her to run for 
help, for she was on the wrong side of the wall. She 
lay so still, he wondered if the fall had killed her. He 
must get down there, before any of the people out be¬ 
yond became aware of that limp form that was Lady 
Beatrice! 

Perhaps he could rouse her, and they could reach the 
little postern gate far down the side of the wall. There 
were no friendly buttresses on this side to shelter them, 
but it was the only thing to be done. “If we had only 
brought Rene to run for help! But a man must protect 
his lady,” he muttered to himself. With one last des- 

[ 59 ] 


perate look around for the help that was not there, he 
lowered himself over the outer edge of the wall, cling¬ 
ing tightly till he hung full length. Then dropping, he 
landed safe on his feet in the shadow of the wall, and 
close by the side of Beatrice. Her eyelids slowly lifted 
as he knelt beside her. 

“Are you hurt, my lady? Oh, are you hurt?” 

“What happened? O—oh, my foot!” she struggled 
to sit up, then as realization of her fall swept over her, 
she caught at Jocelyn’s hand. “Oh, what shall we do? 
How shall we get back?” 

“I think no one has seen us, it may be possible that 
we won’t be noticed if we keep close in the shadow of 
the wall; and if you can walk a little, perhaps we may 
reach the shelter of the postern where there will be a 
watchman to let us in. If only no one passes on the road. 
Can you stand, an I help you?” 

“I’ll try, Jocelyn,” but the pain in her foot brought 
tears to her eyes, Jocelyn dropped to his knees: 

“Let me rub it. It is swelling badly already. If I 
could carry you—” 

Beatrice giggled in spite of the pain at that. “But, 
Jocelyn, I am nearly as tall as you,” she said apologeti¬ 
cally, as she saw his quick frown at her laugh. 

“We must reach the postern, but I can’t leave you here 
alone to call for help!” He looked anxiously up the 
smooth wall that rose sheer and steep above them. 

[ 60 ] 


“Jocelyn, the riders! They come. Oh, what if they 
should see us!” cried Beatrice, her voice frightened. He 
wheeled. Yes, there they came at a swift trot, colorful, 
fierce. But the thrill of today was not in color or superb 
horsemanship. It was a thrill of cold fear. But Jocelyn 
must be brave, and think, think fast! There was no¬ 
where to go, so they must pretend it was natural, their 
being outside the wall. Quickly he dropped on one 
knee beside Beatrice, so that he faced the oncoming 
horsemen: 

“See, Beatrice, we will be playing mumblety-peg with 
my knife. Keep your face toward me and don’t look 
up. Look down at the knife and be sure not to look 
at the riders till they are well past. It’s the only chance 
of their not noticing us, not very good, but the Blessed 
Saints grant it may suffice!” 

He pulled down his peaked cap, with its flaunting, 
scarlet feather over his shining, yellow hair so that it 
shadowed the blue eyes and fair skin, and thought thank¬ 
fully that Beatrice’s hair was dark, not a mass of golden 
curls like those of his little sister, who was now safe 
in cool, green England. His eyes felt queer and hot, but 
his body shivered. However, his hand was steady, bal¬ 
ancing, throwing, catching up the knife, keeping Bea¬ 
trice’s attention with a running chatter of the game. It 
seemed to take hours instead of seconds for the horse¬ 
men to reach them; surely they would never notice two 

[61] 


children playing by the roadside. The beat of the hoofs 
came closer, reached them, stopped. Jocelyn’s move¬ 
ments were mechanical. Only his lips moved, framing 
words of a prayer to his patron saint. 

He realized now that the leader had spoken directly 
to him: 

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” The 
question was repeated impatiently. 

All the pride and arrogance of his Norman-English 
blood rose in Jocelyn. He hesitated no longer: 

“What business is it of yours? Go, leave us, you annoy 
me!” he blazed out in the dialect he had learned from 
servants and prisoners. He sprang to his feet, his fists 
clenched, his fair face flushed with anger. 

The man gave a short laugh, but another spoke to 
him: 

“These are no ordinary babes of low caste Christians. 
Take them with us. Our master will know how to deal 
with the matter. Thou take one, I take the other; 
Allah grant the Franks come not forth till we are gone.” 

Jocelyn still held his knife in his hand; he would use 
it if these men attempted to touch them. It was only 
a knife and he was only a little boy, but some one of 
them should feel it! Yet so swift were their move¬ 
ments, as swift and sure-footed as a wild animal, that 
there was not even time to call out. The stifling folds 
of a heavy burnous enveloped his head, and hands like 

[62] 



“See, Beatrice, we will be playing mumblety-peg” 





































steel bands closed around him, and lifted him despite 
his struggles. Though burdened with his weight Jocelyn 
felt his captor leap to the saddle. He felt also the long 
effortless stride of the horse as it broke into a gallop. 

The heat seemed intense, he wondered where Bea¬ 
trice was, if she was hurt, suffering, smothering, as he 
was! He couldn’t breathe under the cover of the 
burnous; again he tried to fight it off, but his effort was 
weaker; his head burned and spun, his ears roared. 
Then mercifully he slept. 

Hours passed. Night with its myriad brilliant stars 
and its soft blackness fell, bringing a sudden coolness 
which roused Jocelyn. The stifling folds of the cloak 
had been removed, the air blowing in his face was as 
refreshing as a drink of cold water. 

The light of the stars shimmered on a vast expanse 
of rolling sand dunes; an occasional stunted shrub 
looked to him like some animal or misshapen man in the 
strange light. A sudden outcropping of rock slackened 
the speed of the horses. The rocks towered into cliffs, 
they entered a narrow pass, where even the starlight did 
not penetrate. 

In utter blackness the Arab steeds daintily picked 
their way, as sure-footed as in the broad light of day. It 
was bitterly cold and the wind wailed ominously. Joce¬ 
lyn thought with a dull, sick feeling, of Beatrice whom 
he had led into this danger; of his father who had tried 


to teach him to be honourable and knightly (he had 
failed his father’s trust!); of England, her green mead¬ 
ows, the little villages, the great, stately Abbey of Saint 
Cross and his gentle white-haired uncle, the Abbot; of 
his little brothers and his sister, with her golden curls 
and merry laughter. A big tear rolled down his nose. 

The man who carried him spoke suddenly: “Wake, 
Infidel, we are almost there!” 

Jocelyn, clutching the pommel of the saddle, sat erect. 
The silvery light of early dawn was growing. The nar¬ 
row, steeply walled pass opened before them. Ahead 
of them, seeming to float in the shimmering morning 
mists, rose a building such as he had only imagined the 
fairy castles of his old nurse’s tales to be. It had delicate, 
graceful minarets and towers of gleaming white, capped 
with gold and touched with the rosy light of coming 
day. He tried to twist around far enough to catch a 
glimpse of Beatrice, but the blowing cloak of his captor 
kept coming between him and the riders behind. 

With a wild yell, the horsemen came to an abrupt 
halt outside a great bronze door sunk in the wall. They 
leaped to the ground; and while the leader carried on a 
conversation with one who had opened the door, Joce¬ 
lyn ran to Beatrice. She was white and frightened, but 
smiled bravely at him. 

“Beatrice,” he cried, “you are not hurt? You are 
safe?” 


“I do not know how safe we are. But oh, I am so glad 
I am not all alone! It was brave of you to come after 
me, Jocelyn, when I was so silly as to fall from the 
wall! ” 

“Brave! It is generous of you not to tell me it is my 
fault for letting you climb the wall! I shall never be so 
feather-brained again.” 

Meanwhile the leader returned, saying: “The master 
orders the infidel babes brought to him. Thou carry the 
girl, I will take the boy.” 

The bronze door opened, and clanged shut behind 
them. A huge Ethiopian led them through many rooms 
and passages; finally leaving them in a large rather bare 
room. Three sides of it were built of a cool, greenish 
stone, the fourth was an intricately carved screen. 
Through it they could see sunlight flickering on green 
leaves. The servant passed through another door of 
exquisitely wrought-silver bronze. Returning almost 
immediately, he motioned them to follow him. He led 
them across a smaller room hung with rich silken tapes¬ 
tries, and furnished with couches filled with luxurious 
cushions, at which Beatrice cast longing looks. 

But the black man had lifted a curtain on the far side 
of the room, and they entered a room larger and even 
more beautiful than any other through which they had 
come. The vaulted ceiling was a deep soft blue spangled 
with silver stars, the walls were hung with silken tapes- 

[67 I 


tries, the floors covered with rugs of rich and rare design 
and color. Pillars of twisted silver supported the ceiling; 
while in the center of the room, a slender jet of water 
rose and fell from a marble basin, always balancing, at 
its top, an opalescent bubble of crystal, the water falling 
back into the basin with a tinkle that sounded like elfin 
chimes. Bright-hued butterflies fluttered in from the 
gardens, where many birds sang. 

From a deep, cushioned seat rose a man, garbed in a 
loose robe of dark blue wool over a tunic of white silk, 
and a turban of azure blue fastened with a single great 
sapphire. He was tall and dark, with a small, pointed 
black beard and brilliant black eyes that scanned the 
children interestedly; then he spoke, in a soft voice: 

“And these are the prisoners, Abdul? Were you not 
afraid to bear such dangerous ones with you? I wonder 
that you did not slay them.” 

“Master is pleased to jest,” answered the children’s 
captor, “but they are children of nobles, from the for¬ 
tress castle near Acre. Why they were outside the wall, 
I know not; but look upon their garb. They are not of 
the poor. Doubtless they would bring great ransom.” 

“Verily, thou art the son of an ass, Abdul! These lit¬ 
tle ones have tongues, and could tell of my treasure 
house and where it is hid!” 

“Nay, Master, for they were wrapped head and all, 
close under our robes.” 


“Put them down. Go. I will talk with them. I may 
learn something of value.” 

Beatrice was set on her feet, and the two men, salaam¬ 
ing deeply, left the room. At her little gasp of pain as 
her weight came on the hurt foot, Jocelyn ran to her, 
and put his arm about her to give her support: 

“Sir,” he burst forth, “I have heard that many Sara¬ 
cens are right knightly and courteous. This lady hath 
suffered an injury; I pray you it may be attended to!” 

The man stroked his silky, black beard thoughtfully, 
then he clapped his hands. A second Ethiopian ap¬ 
peared at an inner door: 

“Bear the little lady to the Adah. Tell the women it 
is my bidding she should be tenderly cared for.” The 
black stepped forward to obey. Jocelyn, only half un¬ 
derstanding the language used, but gathering he and 
Beatrice were about to be separated, clapped his hand 
to the sheath where his knife should be, once more with 
the intention of offering what resistance he might. But 
the boy’s knife lay where it had fallen some hours ago 
under the castle wall—useless. His hand dropped, and 
he looked around desperately. 

The man watched him, a little smile tugging at the 
corners of his finely cut lips. Jocelyn swung on his heel 
and faced him, still holding Beatrice’s hand. 

“Dog!” said he, furiously, “call off thy servant; he is 
frightening her.” 

r 691 


“Dog?” the man questioned Jocelyn gently, though 
the black eyes snapped under frowning brows. 

“Aye, and thou shalt be a whipped dog, if aught 
harms her! For when my father and the Count Ray¬ 
mond find we are missing, they will bring their men, 
and raze this place and kill you all! ” 

“And how will they do this? Where will they gain 
knowledge of where thou art or who bore thee hence?” 

“They will find my dagger and my cap. Then they 
will ask in the market place.” 

“And thinkest thou, those in the market place will 
say: ‘Lo! The servants of Prince Charan passed, and 
bore away the babes; go thus and thus, and thou wilt 
find his dwelling?’ ” 

Jocelyn bit his lips to steady himself and answered, 
though his throat felt stiff and his heart pounded too 
hard: “Nevertheless, no hurt shall come to my Lady 
Beatrice, while there is aught I may do to defend her. 
Thou mayest kill me first!” 

“Bravely spoken! Thy father hast builded well, little 
Sir Knight, for thou hast shown no fear for thyself, 
but for thy lady, and thine own honour. Indeed, I 
would only send her to the women that the hurt should 
be attended to.” But Beatrice clung to Jocelyn’s arm: 

“Jocelyn, Jocelyn, I am afraid!” she cried. 

Prince Charan motioned the Negro back, and himself 
lifted the little girl to the couch, and very gently with 

[70] 


his long, slender fingers, felt the swollen ankle. He 
nodded to the servant, who withdrew. Then he said, 
“I will myself carry thee to the women where thou shalt 
have rest, food and hot water for the poor little foot.” 
He lifted her easily, and strode out and across the gar¬ 
den, Jocelyn close at his heels. 

An elderly woman came to meet them, saying, 
“Effendi, how may thy servant please thee?” 

He lowered Beatrice to a couch and spoke rapidly to 
the woman, gesticulating toward the children and once 
to the garden. Then to Jocelyn: “Come, she is in good 
hands.” And leading the way back to the garden, he 
paused beneath a window, “Speak, she will answer thee, 
and thou wilt know her safe.” 

“Sir,” answered the boy, “my father taught me that 
even an enemy who is an honorable man, is to be dealt 
with honorably. If I speak, it is not to reassure myself, 
but to comfort her.” So he called, and was answered. 

“And now,” said the prince, “thou, too, must be tired 
and in need of rest. I will call Jithra; he will care for 
thy comfort.” And Jocelyn suddenly realized how long 
it was since he had eaten; how much had happened; 
what a strain he had been under, trying to do the manly 
thing. So it was only a very tired, very hungry little 
boy that black Jithra, answering his master’s summons, 
led away. 

In the late afternoon Jocelyn woke and stretched, laz- 

[ 7i ] 


ily content; wondering what smelled so sweet. Where 
was he? He sat up from the heap of soft cushions, look¬ 
ing bewilderedly around. Then remembrance swept 
over him—all the happenings of the day before and the 
early morning. He felt strong and alert once more, and 
surely this Prince Charan who had been kind to them 
so far, would send them safely home. 

The curtain lifted and Jithra came in. When he saw 
the boy was awake, his white teeth gleamed and his 
black face widened in a good-natured grin. He jabbered 
something unintelligible, and advanced toward the 
couch. Jocelyn saw he was carrying an armful of cloth¬ 
ing, and in no time the boy was dressed, surveying him¬ 
self delightedly and wriggling in pleased appreciation 
of the loose, cool garments—a sleeveless tunic of white 
silk, belted with a gold-embroidered girdle, and over it 
an open surcoat of a deep rose color. When his yellow 
curly hair was combed, Jithra said to him, speaking very 
slowly and carefully, so as to make no mistakes: 

“Master waits in the garden.” Jithra beamed delight¬ 
edly, when he saw that Jocelyn had understood him. 

Under the shade of the trees, near a small pool sat 
Beatrice and Prince Charan watching a big tawny cat, 
who, with her plumy tail twitching, lay at the water’s 
edge daintily dipping in a paw, ever hopeful of catching 
one of the goldfish that flashed among the lily pads. 
Beatrice looked up and waved a hand: 

[ 72 ] 


“Jocelyn! I love it here, it is like living in fairyland; 
everything is so beautiful, and Prince Charan treats me 
like a great lady! Would it not be fun to live here al¬ 
ways?” 

Jocelyn scowled, “And who was it who chided me for 
forgetting why we are in this land? What would Father 
Bernard think of such talk! Prince Charan, though a 
most courteous man, is nevertheless, an Unbeliever!” 

“Boy, boy,” laughed the prince, “Come, tell me what 
would this Father Bernard of thine do if he were here 
in thy place?” 

“I think,” answered Jocelyn slowly, weighing his 
words thoughtfully, “he would try to make clear to thee, 
many of the wonders of the life and teachings of our 
Lord Jesus, that perchance thou mightest come to believe 
in the true God. For the good father is a holy and 
learned man, and would know how to set it before thee; 
whereas I am but a boy, and have, moreover, been given 
over much to mischief, and laziness in learning. I wish 
I knew more, for thou hast been kind and gentle to us, 
and I would I might repay it! And then, perchance, 
thou wouldst let us go home?” 

“Tell me of thy home, boy. Thou art from that far, 
cold island called England?” 

“It is not cold. But it is never hot, as it is here! It is 
a fair and green land, filled with simple, sweet flowers; 
forests, where the deer stop to look at you, noble and 

[ 73 ] 


unafraid. There are great castles, monasteries, cities and 
little villages.” 

So they sat and talked in the beautiful garden until 
dusk fell, and the stars began to come out like great 
white lamps hung low in the velvety blackness of the 
sky. Jithra returned, and set a small table near them, 
serving them with strange and delicious food—aspara¬ 
gus which they had never before seen, warm goat’s milk, 
great bowls of fruits, sweetmeats and cakes; and Prince 
Charan gravely bid them break the bread of friendship 
and hospitality with him. 

The next morning Prince Charan, busy with the af¬ 
fairs of his great estate, sent his lieutenant to show the 
two children through his palace and his stables. From 
the flat roof they saw the wild and colorful array of the 
Prince’s horsemen at maneuvers on the plain. It was as 
though this was a world by itself. The palace was set 
in a wide, green basin surrounded by rocky walls, and 
Jocelyn had no idea as to which side of the wall they had 
entered by. Nor could he by the most adroit questioning 
get any information from their guide. 

At last he wearied of trying, resolving to leave it till 
he saw Prince Charan once more. The boy gave himself 
up to whole-hearted enjoyment of the beauties of the 
palace, and the wonderful Arabian horses with their 
slim legs, powerfully muscled bodies and necks, and the 
soft and friendly eyes. 


When twilight once more drew near, Jocelyn and Bea¬ 
trice again found Prince Charan awaiting them in the 
garden by the pool. He asked if they had enjoyed their 
day, and seemed to find pleasure in their delight. But 
always when Jocelyn asked if he would let them go 
home, Prince Charan deftly evaded the subject. He 
made Jocelyn describe the castle in England; the river 
running below it, with the great Abbey on the other side, 
where the monks’ voices chanted sweetly at matins, ves¬ 
pers, and Christmas festivals. Jocelyn told too of the 
time the king came to the castle during one of his tours 
of the land; how he had beckoned to the little five-year- 
old Jocelyn, and sat him on his knee and fed him sweet¬ 
meats; while the Hall was full of esquires, knights and 
courtiers, and the wards filled with men-at-arms and 
archers. 

“Is not the castle at Acre far larger? Dost thou not 
see kings, great knights, and vast armies there also?” 
And Jocelyn, remembering how sickness and dissensions 
had weakened the Crusaders’ armies, sent up a little 
prayer for forgiveness and lied, bravely and magnifi¬ 
cently ! 

And ever Prince Charan’s questioning brought them 
back to the simple and beautiful story of that Holy life 
that had inspired the ideal of the Crusades, and he lis¬ 
tened gravely and interestedly to Jocelyn’s words. At 
first, the boy was shy and abrupt, but gaining confidence, 

[ 75 ] 


he forgot himself in the greatness of what he had to 
give to the man, who though his captor, Jocelyn felt 
was also his friend. 

Lamps glowing like jewels in the dusk shone from 
the rooms about the court, out of which drifted soft 
music from unseen musicians. Jithra again served them 
supper. Then Prince Charan clapped his hands and 
silent, white-robed servants removed the dishes, while 
Jithra in answer to an order, brought a carved golden 
casket and set it, together with a square of black velvet 
on the table. Prince Charan loosened a small key from 
his girdle, opened the casket, and dipping in his slim 
brown fingers brought forth a handful of gems, which 
he laid on the black velvet. 

There before the three were emeralds and sapphires, 
shooting rays of cold fire; great rubies like drops of 
blood; diamonds, quivering in a rainbow haze of light. 
And while the two children sat spellbound, he told them 
strange tales of far-off lands; of great kings and princes 
bearing princely gifts such as these; of thieves and rob¬ 
bers, and the heathen gods whom they robbed; of queer 
yellow people with slanting eyes, who had vast knowl¬ 
edge and great wealth. Then he lifted one stone, deep 
blue as the evening sky. In it, as in the sky, was a shin¬ 
ing star. 

“See,” he said, holding it out to Beatrice, “your Star 
of Bethlehem, of which,” he added musingly, “though 

[ 76 ] 



He bent the slim blade in an arc 



































you have taught me much, I must learn more! There 
is a strange power in it, that it makes brave men travel 
so far, and a young boy dare a strong man. Take it, 
little lady, and always when you wear it, you shall re¬ 
member this day in the treasure house of Prince Charan. 
And for thee, my knightly little enemy—” he turned 
again to Jithra, who was squatted behind his chair, as 
motionless as a bronze image, and took from the servant 
a slender sword, its hilt blazing with jewels; red and 
blue and green, like little dancing flames. He held the 
slim blade in between his hands, and bent it in an arc. 
When he released the point, it sprang back straight and 
true. 

“Steel of Damascus,” he said. “There is none to equal 
it, in strength or sharpness; feel it in thy hand.” Light 
and vibrant as though alive, it fitted into Jocelyn’s hand. 
The boy was breathless with delight. 

“For me, Prince Charan? It is far too princely a gift, 
and I have none for thee!” 

“Nay, for I think thou hast brought me the most price¬ 
less gift in the world, as some day thou may come to 
understand. And now, thy sword shall bind us, one to 
another, in the Oath of Brother-in-Blood.” He took the 
sword back from Jocelyn, drew its point across the skin 
of his arm, and a thin red line followed it. Then gravely, 
he did the same to the boy: “On the wondrous names 
of Allah and Jehovah, one and the same forever! Take 

[ 79 ] 


thou the Sword, little brother. Wear it as bravely as 
thou hast borne thyself toward me. It is called the 
Luc\ of the House, and while thou and thy sons possess 
it, never shall thy tree fail for sons! Here,” he touched 
Arabic characters on the blade, “is inscribed Always 
Faithful. Keep thou the faith! And now it is time for 
rest. May thy sleep be sweet, and thy dreams come 
through the Gate of Ivory, whence come all beautiful 
dreams! Jithra, bring our guests each a cup of milk.” 

The warder of the postern gate peered through the 
grill. A strange sound that was, like muffled hoofbeats. 
But it could not be. For since those two children had 
disappeared, the guard had been doubled and surely 
would have seen a horseman approach. As the sentry 
on the left wall drew near, the warder called out: 
“Heard ye aught from the outside?” 

“Nah, I ’ear naught, other than me own feet, though 
I listen till me ears like to burst! ’Tis main fearsome, 
walking this black night, never knowing but what them 
varmints will drop from the wall and split a man’s gul¬ 
let. The saints protect us!” and he turned and tramped 
away into the darkness. 

An hour later, as the black night faded into the 
ghostly grey of coming dawn, the warder again peered 
out. “Sounds, sounds!” he grumbled. Then he reached 

[ 80 ] 


for the bell rope to summon the watch, for there .was 
something, someone, in the shadow of the wall. But 
before the brazen tongue could send forth its warning 
cry, a boy’s clear voice shouted: 

“Ho, warder of the postern, open to me! Make 
haste!” 

Clang! Clang! rang out the bell, and: “Who’s with¬ 
out?” called the warder, fearing a trap, though he knew 
that voice, and his hands were at the bars and bolts of 
the gate even as he spoke. 

“’Tis my Lady Beatrice; and I, Jocelyn Donham, 
good Robert. Let us in speedily, there be none here but 
us two!” 

Running feet, excited voices, assured him of support 
in case this was a trap, and the warder shot the last 
heavy bolt. Reaching out strong, ready hands he pulled 
the boy and girl safely inside. 

By this time, not only had the watch arrived, but men 
from the inner wards of the castle came racing in an¬ 
swer to the clamor of the bell, the wall sentries calling 
out to know what had happened. In the center of all 
the confusion, stood Jocelyn and Beatrice. 

Then came Count Raymond, wrapped in his long 
white cloak bearing on its shoulder the scarlet cross of 
the Crusaders, and caught his daughter into his arms, 
saying to Jocelyn; 

“Thou young troublemaker! But yesterday thy father 
[ 81 ] 


returned in company with many other knights, for 
King Richard is withdrawing his army from the Holy 
Land. The Baron is wellnigh mad with anxiety at thy 
absence! Away with ye. Later we will haveexplanations. ,, 

So, later, standing by his father in the Great Hall, 
Jocelyn finished his story; “And, my lord, we each 
drank a cup of milk and went to sleep. When I woke I 
was sitting in the embrasure of the postern with Lady 
Beatrice still asleep, by my side. How we came or where 
we were, I cannot tell thee. That is all.” 

“Where is this wonderful Sword of which thou speak- 
est, my son?” asked Baron John. Jocelyn laid it in his 
father’s hands, dropping on one knee beside him. 

“See, Father, it says here—Always Faithful. I shall 
take that for my motto, and try to be always faithful, 
sir. And so shall my sons, and son’s sons after me in 
England, when we come there once more.” 

As Count Raymond said, King Richard made a truce 
with the Saracens, and the Crusaders retired to the coast, 
where they embarked for their homelands. Heavy 
storms buffeted the fleet, the ships were separated from 
each other, some were lost, some were wrecked on the 
shores. But the ship on which Jocelyn and his father 
sailed at last reached that fair and green land of which 
the homesick lad had told Prince Charan. The little 
sister with the golden curls welcomed them back to 
Donham Keep. 


[82] 


Never again did Jocelyn see the far-off Holy Land 
and the fairy-like minarets and pinnacles, the shining 
walls and beautiful gardens of Prince Charan’s treasure 
house. It might all have remained in his memory only 
as a dream, growing dimmer and dimmer with the pass¬ 
ing years, but for the Prince’s gift of the Sword with the 
keen shining blade, and the hilt of gleaming jewels. A 
minstrel at Donham Keep made a ballad about it, and 
over and over the story was sung and told. 

Jocelyn’s little sons grew up in the castle. They were 
all taught Jocelyn’s code of faith and knightly courtesy 
to king and peasant, friend and enemy alike. At last 
when the eldest boy was old enough, Jocelyn put the 
Sword into his hands with Prince Charan’s words: 
“Wear it bravely; ’tis called the Luc\ of the House . 
While thou and thy sons possess it, never shall thy tree 
fail for sons; it is inscribed Always Faithful. Keep thou 
the Faith!” 

So from father to son it continued to be handed down. 
Some were strong, some were weak, some may have 
been bad, but all tried in their own way and according 
to their own times to keep the Faith. 



[83] 











1381 

THE ROAD TO LONDON 

When the Peasantry Appealed to the Last Plantagenet 
King for Aid Against Oppression. 

In which, having been present when the great 
Magna Carta was signed by King John; carried to 
the first council of barons which was called Parlia¬ 
ment during the reign of King Henry 111; accom¬ 
panying another Donham on another Crusade to the 
Holy Land under King Edward 1; carried at the 
Battle of Crecy in France under the Blacky Prince, 
the Luck was lost and found again. And self-willed, 
spoiled young Guy of Donham learned hjiightly cour¬ 
tesy to peasant as well as to prince. 

[ 85 ] 






\ 


I N a small, but richly furnished upper room in Hugh’s 
Tower, Guy, eldest son of Lord Donham, of Don- 
ham Keep, was busily polishing the slim and shin¬ 
ing blade of the jeweled Sword called the Luc\. The 
Sword was one of Donham’s chief treasures since the 
long ago day when it had been given, by a mysterious 
and powerful eastern lord, to a young Crusading son of 
the house. Perhaps because of its origin, perhaps because 
the family always had at least three sons, as tradition said 
the emir had predicted—and in those days of battle and 
strife it was necessary to have many sons if a family was 
to survive—certainly the family had prospered, and in 
proportion the credit was bestowed on the strange and 
secret powers of the Luc\ of the House . 

[ By ] 


So, it was not that the revered blade needed the pol¬ 
ishing, but it was an excellent reason for Guy to linger 
in his father’s private apartment. He was deeply inter¬ 
ested in an important missive that had been brought 
the day before by a king’s messenger. Lord Donham 
held this in his hand as he talked to his brother, the 
prior of the great Benedictine Abbey of Holy Cross, that 
lay only a short distance from the castle. 

Lord Donham tapped absent-mindedly on the dark 
oak table at his side with the parchment, then placed it 
neatly beside a pile of Manor rolls that lay there await¬ 
ing his inspection. Slowly he shook his head, his brows 
drawn down in a scowl, and said: 

“I like not this report coming from Kent. This priest, 
John Ball, is inflaming the peasantry! Filling them with 
false ideas. They have been growing overbold in their 
constant demand for higher wages, lower rent. It has 
been growing worse and worse, since the terrible days 
of the Black Death, in our father’s time,” and Lord 
Donham made the Sign of the Cross. He spoke of that 
dread scourge that had swept through England from 
Europe, killing thousands in its passing, so that towns 
and villages were deserted; farms were tenantless; crops 
had grown and withered where they stood for lack of 
harvesters; cattle and sheep fed where they willed, and 
wandered homeless and untended, for there were not 
enough herdsmen left alive to care for them. There had 

[ 88 ] 


been such a want of laborers that the nobles and over- 
lords had been forced to pay whatever was asked, or 
see their fruits and crops lost. 

“Thrice hath Simon, Archbishop of Canterbury, pun¬ 
ished him with imprisonment,” answered the gentle¬ 
voiced, black-robed priest. 

“I would that Canterbury had not been so soft-hearted 
as to release him because, forsooth, he was set to die an 
he were kept in prison! It was not wise! ” 

“Wisdom goeth hand in hand with justice and mercy, 
brother Geoffrey.” 

“I like not the idea of servage,” Lord Donham spoke 
consideringly. “Yet, given enough leisure wherein to 
till their own fields, and build for themselves homes, 
’twould seem that the old plan of paying rents in labor 
is truly best. Parliament hath passed law whereby the 
scale of their wage shall not be higher than before the 
Plague. Bah! This hath but made for discontent, and 
then arises this man Ball, aggravating them more and 
more, and we be called for further discussion of the prob¬ 
lem that no one knows how to meet!” 

Guy laid down the Sword and crossing the room, sat 
on the arm of his father’s chair. 

“The Plague was so long ago, Father, and how shall 
they get the moneys wherewith to pay the rents, and 
they are not paid a fair wage for their service?” He 
reached over and picked up the parchment. 

[89] 


“That is so/’ nodded the Prior. “There is no use in 
making laws when the facts are against ye. And, for 
all that ye bluster and storm at them, thy people are 
content and happy in their little homes. Ye are not all 
as black as painted!” he laughed gently. 

“No more than that all prelates, abbots and monks 
grow fat and lazy from much luxurious living!” re¬ 
joined Lord Donham, with an affectionate glance at the 
priest’s slight, spare figure, and lean, asthetic face soft¬ 
ened and lighted by the serene, kindly blue eyes. 

They sat silent for a moment remembering boyhood 
days together before one became a priest and the other 
Lord of the Manor. Then the churchman asked, “When 
dost thou go up to London to obey the Regent’s sum¬ 
mons to Parliament?” 

“Eh, it is for—Pest! Where is that parchment?” As 
he fumbled among the rolls in search of it, Guy slipped 
to his feet, and unrolling the parchment read aloud 
from it: 

‘The Lord Regent for His Gracious Majesty, King 
Richard 

To his trusted friend, Baron Geoffrey of Donham— 
Greeting—’ 

“He does love thee dearly, sir,” and Guy looked up at 
his father— 

‘Since we wish to have a conference and meeting 
with the Earls, Barons, Prelates and principal men of 
the Kingdom to provide remedies for the troubles—•’ 

[ 90 ] 


“That will be to think of more taxes, I’ll warrant—” 
'We command, by the fidelity and love by which 
ye are bound to your King, that on the Lord’s Day 
next, ye be present—’ 

Lord Donham reached out a long arm to take the 
royal parchment from him, but Guy dodged away and 
continued reading: 

‘—in person—’ 

“Why does he not call thy sons? They be nearer the 
King’s age. And faith, maybe we might be able to 
think of a solution quicker than the greybeards—” 

‘—at Westminster, for considering, ordaining and 
doing with us what may be necessary. 

‘Witness, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Lord 
Regent for the King’s Majesty, at Windsor, the third 
day of September—’ 

“May I not go up to London with thee, Father? Never 
have I seen London!” 

“Thou young rascal! London’s better without thee. 
Give me the missive. Hast no respect for the Royal 
seal? Get thee away; take out thy mischief on thy 
brothers and sister, or amongst the esquires. And, re¬ 
turn thou the Luc\ to my private armory. Begone!” 
And when the leather curtains that covered the door 
had dropped behind Guy, Lord Donham looked at his 
brother and said half in apology, half in pride: “He’s 
as wild as a young hawk, and as full of mischief as an 
egg is of meat.” 

[9i] 


“Thou art too easy with him, brother Geoffrey. Best 
let us have him, and tame him.” 

“Nay, thou wouldst never make a monk of him, 
Thomas; Simon, perhaps, but not Guy. He’s young yet. 
He has but twelve years over his head. But there’s 
good there. He will steady down.” 

Guy meanwhile had sped down the stair, and into 
the Great Hall of the castle, where he found his sister 
Phillipa quietly and peacefully playing chess with 
Simon, one of their younger brothers. Raymond, the 
other, watched them interestedly. 

“Phillipa,” he cried, “ ’tis the Knight’s move on the 
Queen! Am I not a doughty knight? For I am come 
to take thee prisoner!” He stood poised on the last step 
of the stair, the Luc\ still grasped in his hand. Phil¬ 
lipa looked up at him. She was always a little alarmed 
at Guy when he was in one of his wild moods, and 
never knew quite how to meet him. 

“Nay now, Guy, let me be!” she cried, and fled across 
to a big carved chair, behind which she hid. 

And Guy, with no intention other than to scare her, 
called to the two younger boys; “Thou, Simon and 
Raymond, quick. Get behind and catch her!” With 
his eyes dancing with mischief, he advanced, step by 
step, in slow, measured, and seemingly portentous tread 
toward his pretty sister, now half laughing, now half 
alarmed. 


[92] 


“Ah Guy, no! ’Tis not fair that thou shouldst tease 
me so! And those two little wretches wilt do thy bid¬ 
ding, just because I am a girl!” 

“I am a robber baron,” announced Guy in an awe¬ 
some whisper. “Deep in my darkest dungeon shall I 
keep thee, maiden, and thou tellest me not where thou 
hast hidden thy treasures! ” 

“But Guy, I have no treasure to hide! Simon,” she 
protested to her younger brother. “I’ll not sing Ray¬ 
mond and thee any more songs, nor play chess—no, nor 
mend thy tennis bat as I promised, if thou touchest me! ” 

“Master Guy.” Walter, Lord Donham’s steward stood 
in the wide, arched doorway, an anxious look on his 
face. “Is not my lord here?” 

Guy swung about to face him: “What is it, Walter?” 
he asked. 

“I thought my lord should know, there be a horde 
of wandering peasants, and they be plundering the 
farms, and raising bad feeling amongst the farmers, and 
such like.” 

“By Saint George,” exclaimed Guy, “what’s England 
come to, that a few peasants can scare a grown man, 
even as I have scared my lady Phillipa here just by walk¬ 
ing slowly toward her? Trouble not my father with 
such trifles. Indeed, I feign would see them for myself!” 
And he dashed for the door. 

Phillipa ran after him and caught his arm: 

[ 93 ] 


“Guy, they may do thee some harm. Do not go, I 
pray thee!” 

“Why, Phillipa, they be but peasants! What harm 
can they do me?” He grinned impishly, “Wouldst 
have me don helmet and buckler likewise, to go forth 
and ride a tilt with Sir Peasant? Nay see. For thy com¬ 
forting I will carry the Luc\; have no fear for me!” 
And laughing gaily, he clicked the Sword into its scab¬ 
bard and ran down the steps out into the courtyard, 
where it chanced that a groom had been exercising Guy’s 
own horse. 

“Stand aside,” he ordered, and catching the horse’s 
mane in his left hand, he leaped to the saddle. “I’ll do 
it fully armed one of these days!” he cried to the groom, 
and kicking his heels against the horse’s flanks, rode 
across the bailey to the gatehouse, where Parton, the 
captain of the guard, stepped out to meet him. 

“Art just riding, Lord Guy?” he asked. “There be 
many strangers about. Wilt not have one of the men- 
at-arms go with thee, or wait ’til I myself, can bring 
out my horse? I couldna’ face my lord, should aught 
befall thee!” 

“But naught can happen, good Parton. What’s come 
to thee? You all try to make a babe of thy lord’s son! 
Come, open the gate! ” 

Shaking his head doubtfully, Parton strode to the gate¬ 
house: “Open the gate,” he called, and the great oaken 


gates were swung wide by two of the men-at-arms who 
saluted as Guy passed through. 

“He rides well, our lordling,” said one. 

“Aye, and didst see him on the tilting field yester 
e’en?” questioned the other. “He nigh unseated the 
master-at-arms himself! A right sturdy lad!” he said 
with pride. 

Guy cantered gaily on. At a curve in the path he 
turned in the saddle to look back. From a window in 
the turret, Phillipa waved to him. Snatching off his 
velvet cap, he swung it high over his head, and with 
it still in his hand and the sunlight shining on his blond 
head, he rode around the bend and out of sight. 

A smithy stood at the crossroad that led to the village, 
and Guy reined in his horse at the door. 

“Ho, master smith,” he called. The blacksmith, bend¬ 
ing over the forge looked up, and then limped to the 
door, still carrying in his pincers the glowing horseshoe, 
on which he had been working. 

“God’s day to ’ee, young master,” he greeted Guy, 
through his great, bushy, black beard. “How may I 
serve my lord’s son?” 

“Only if thou canst tell me where went this ‘Peasant 
Army.’ Didst see them?” 

“Oh, aye, master, that I have. They would have me 
come join with them, to march to London to see the 
king. And by the saints! They know not why they 

[ 95 ] 


would go! So, I told them I’d seen many a king in the 
old days, ere I got a pike through this leg o’ mine at 
Poitiers, and that I be well enough content with my lot 
here. They be gone on!” He gestured down the road 
with the pincers, while his broad shoulders shook with 
his rumbling laugh. He had been none too gentle in 
his answer, and the peasant leader had stumbled back 
among his fellows in fear of the redhot iron, brandished 
in his face by the big smith. 

Guy crossed a hollow and rode up the opposite rise. 
There was a farm below the rise, and the space about 
it was filled with people, and he heard the murmur 
of many voices. Guy sat for a moment, irresolute. 
What had he meant to do when he came up to the 
peasants? He had had no idea that there would be so 
many of them. They seemed to be arguing with the 
farmer, who was one of their villeins—a Donham man, 
therefore to be given protection by his lord. “Well,” 
thought Guy, “if they go on peaceably, it will be well 
enough, but—” 

At first the farmer seemed disposed to refuse what 
the others appeared to be asking, for Guy could see 
that he repeatedly shook his head, though less and less 
determinedly. Then he slowly descended from the cart 
in which he had been sitting, called something to the 
woman who stood in the door, picked up a pitchfork 
that lay in the cart, and moved off with the crowd. The 
[96] 


woman started after him. A child caught at her skirt. 
She hesitated, lifted the child in her arms and as it put 
its small hand to her face, she turned forlornly back to 
the small cottage. 

The little drama enacted before his eyes called forth 
an immediate response from Guy. His horse, obedient 
to its master’s touch, galloped down to the farmyard. 
Guy jumped from his saddle, and went to the door 
where he paused uncertainly. For there, huddled on a 
bench with the baby still clutched tightly in her arms, 
the woman sat sobbing bitterly. 

The child peered in wide-eyed interest over its moth¬ 
er’s shoulder at the strange boy, with his bright, hand¬ 
some clothing. 

“See! P’itty!” it said, reaching out a pudgy finger, 
and pushing the woman’s cheek. She lifted her head, 
and looked around, her round, rosy face tear-stained 
and miserable. Guy felt he must say something, so he 
crossed the room to her. 

“Good woman,” he said, “did they do aught to hurt 
thee?” 

“No, master,” she sniffed, “ ’twere no ’urt. But, oh 
zur, they ha’ took my good man awa’ wi’ un!” And 
once more her face was buried against the child. 

“But why? Why did he go, does he not make a 
profit of his land? Is he not comfortable here? Do you 
not have enough to eat?” 


“Indeed, zur, we do very well. Peter, he do make 
mostly four pence a day; we have our own pig and 
cow, our own sheep; and good children. Oh, oh—” 

“Well, what is’t then?” asked Guy, impatiently. 

“ ’Twas only a week come Wednesday last, that 
m’lord came by on his great grey horse, an’ he did stop 
to ask for a cup o’ water; an’ whilst I got it for him, he 
did ask Peter about crops, an’ cattle—all as though he 
were but a farmer hisself. An’ there were all his ser¬ 
vants about him, an’ he said we was doin’ well, an’ 
Peter, he was so proud-like!” 

“Yes, yes, go on!” 

“Then two days ago came a King’s Bailiff, an’ he 
says we must pay taxes for this, an’ taxes for that; we 
e’en must pay a tax on our oldest boy, an’ he no bigger 
nor yourself, beggin’ your pardon, zur! So, then when 
these people, they come, they tell Peter, first how they 
were a-goin’ to Lunnon, there to tell the King, an’ 
show him how it must be otherwise. An’ Peter wouldna’ 
listen, but by-an’ by he did listen! Then he went off 
with them, an’ wouldna’ harken when I called to him 
to come back—that it would be better to see our lord, 
whose lands we live on. An’ he has left me all alone 
with the little ones, and the farm to mind; an’ he’ll be 
killed, or thrown into prison! Though why I do be 
tellin’ all this to a stranger, an’ him, but a bit of a lad, 
I know not!” 


“Do not fear, my good woman. I am Lord Donham’s 
son, and I will go after thy Peter, and tell him to return 
to thee! If he still be pig-headed, why then, needs must 
I e’en go with him, to see that he does not fall into 
prison, but doth come back in the end to thee. See, here 
is a penny for ye to comfort your tears, ’til his return.” 
And Guy went quickly from the room, followed by the 
woman’s voluble blessings, for to her simple mind, a 
promise from any member of their overlord’s family was 
as good as accomplished. 

In his quick, impetuous desire to help the poor, dis¬ 
tressed creature, Guy did not stop to think of possible 
danger to himself, or that there were, perhaps, wiser 
ways of accomplishing his purpose. His indignation 
was still running high when he caught up with the 
stragglers of the marching peasants. 

As he reined in his horse, his eyes flashed over the 
sea of faces, searching for one that he knew, but they 
were all strange. Guy suddenly felt very lonely, yet 
he could hardly turn tail and run from a lot of peasants. 

A man looked up at him and grinned; “Whaur be-est 
agoin’, my pretty little man, with thy big horse, and thy 
lordly ways, riding down good honest yeomen?” 

“I want Peter Hobson,” Guy demanded haughtily. 

“Oi dunno no Peter Hobson,” drawled the man. 
“There be many a man here Oi ha’ ne’er set eyes on 
before.” 

L 99 ] 


“Aye, many a one that do be gettin’ away from just 
such as ye who think we be but as sheep and cattle! 
‘I want Peter Hobson!’ saith he. Well, perchance, Peter 
be-ent wantin’ o’ ye!” chimed in another. 

“Where is your leader?” asked Guy, flushing hotly, 
but striving to ignore their impudence. 

“A-leadin’, your most noble lordship!” called a third, 
making him a mocking bow, while the others roared 
with laughter at the crude attempt at humor. 

Another caught at Guy’s bridle. “Look’ee at the gold 
chain about his neck,” he shouted. 

“Take your hand from my bridle, you insolent var- 
let,” raged Guy, “or I’ll take my sword to you!” and 
he laid his hand on the hilt of the Luc\. 

As though the action brought a memory of old 
wrongs, the humor of the crowd changed. Instead of 
laughter, there were angry growls and curses, and they 
closed menacingly about him, threatening him with 
their weapons. Then the nearest man snatched at the 
scabbard of the Sword, and before Guy could draw, 
had wrenched it away from him, and hurled it over 
the hedge. In stunned silence the boy watched the 
bright blade flash in the sun, for the Luc\ of the House 
was gone! 

What awful thing might that mean for him? Even 
the more educated people in those days were very 
superstitious, and the fear that swept over Guy was so 

[ ioo 1 


strong, that when someone in the rear of the crowd 
threw a stone, hitting his horse and causing it to 
rear, he was taken quite unawares and found himself 
on his back in the road, his Sword gone, and his horse 
tearing riderless across the fields. 

A rough hand pulled him to his feet. With distaste, 
Guy flicked at the dust on his clothing. 

“He’ll soon be used to the dust, an’ ye gi’ him a bit 
o’ trampin’ on the road along wi’ us, Andrew Tanner!” 
jeered a young man. 

“Aye, let un zee what ’tis loike tu be homeless, an’ 
hungry!” came another voice. 

“Bring him along. On with the march. To London! 
London and the King!” clamored the rest. Hedged 
about and unable to resist, Guy found himself swept on 
down the road by the impetus of the mass of people. 

A flood of bewildering emotions swept over Guy as 
they moved onward. First, sheer fury made him rage 
and struggle to fight through the crowd. But their solid 
mass, and indifference to his blows, gave him a fright¬ 
ening feeling of powerlessness, and their laughter and 
jibes brought a hot rush of angry shame at his predica¬ 
ment. So he trudged sullenly on until curiosity over¬ 
came him and he began to take a stealthy glance at 
first one, then another of those near him. As he looked 
he saw there, not only the dull, unimaginative face of 
the simple yokel, but the visionary faces of dreamers 
[ ioi ] 


and artists, the sturdy independence of the farmer, 
miller, carpenter, tiler, tailor—workmen of every sort 
—all with their faces and hopes set towards London 
and the King! 

They, all grown men, were going to London to see 
the King, a boy not so very much older than he. Guy 
had come to watch them go, and whether he would or 
not, he appeared to be going with them! And then, 
suddenly, his sense of humor returned—he had wanted 
to go to London, but it was not thus he had meant to 
journey. He started to laugh. 

Andrew the tanner, who had helped him to his feet, 
looked down at him in surprise. “What do ye laugh 
at?” he asked, in his slow, heavy drawl. 

“You are all so foolish, as foolish as I myself. I race 
out of my safe home, to look at you, and you affright 
my horse, and steal me away. You all plod to London 
to see the King. How, think you, will he treat with 
you? Or wilt steal him, as thou hast stolen me? Come, 
help me to find this Peter Hobson and let me go, or 
by my honor, my legs will not carry me home! ” 

“Thy legs will carry ye to Lunnon, e’en as ours will 
us,” growled Andrew, and turned back to his com¬ 
panion on his other side. 

Mile after mile, they tramped on along the winding 
roads and lanes, through villages and skirting towns, 
gathering fresh recruits to the ranks as they went. Guy 

T 102 1 


began to think all the peasants in England must be 
here, and that there could not be any but peasants; 
They stopped by a little stream to rest; some of the 
men produced small packets of food, some had apples 
gathered from roadside orchards as they marched. 

Guy was too utterly weary to feel hungry, but the 
clear, rippling little stream held out a pleasant invita¬ 
tion to him to cool his dry, parched throat and wash 
away the dust from which he had been suffering. He 
threw himself down on the bank, plunged hands and 
face in the cold water, until at last, satisfied, he rolled 
over on his back in the deep grass, still warm and per¬ 
fumed from the day’s sun, and dropped asleep. 

A grinding pain in his left hand roused him and 
brought him to his feet. A boy a few years Guy’s 
senior, looked back over his shoulder as he knelt by 
the brook, and laughed. “Stepped on yer daddle, didn’t 
Oi?” he said, then he stooped to drink. 

Guy, white with anger and pain, took a quick step 
toward him; “Insolent varlet!” he said, and with a well 
directed kick, sent the kneeling lad sprawling into the 
water. The boy scrambled to his feet, spluttering, and 
shook himself like a great shaggy dog. Guy stood on 
the bank, his eyes still blazing, but his mouth laughing; 
the other climbed up, and faced him. He was a head 
taller than Guy, and heavier. 

“Oi’ll give ’ee the worst drubbing ’ee ever had for 

[ 103 ] 


this, ’ee little squirt, and make ’ee laugh ’tother side 
of thy mouth, Oi will!” he shouted. 

“You great hulking swine,” answered Guy, easily, 
“if you so much as dare lay a finger on me, I’ll see you 
hanged for it! You nigh broke my hand with your 
clumsy foot.” 

“Uh-h, hung, will ’ee? Whoi, Oi could take ’ee up 
in my two fistses, and bust ’ee in half!” 

“Really?” drawled Guy. “Well, perhaps, for I am 
friendless here now; but get a couple of staves from 
your comrades yonder, and I’ll e’en show you who’s 
master!” he finished, confidently. 

The other surveyed him an instant, under lowering 
brows, then: “All right,” he grunted, “if ’ee’re lookin’ 
to get beated, ’ee’re like to get what ’ee’re lookin’ for!” 
And the boy ran off. 

Quarterstaves was a popular though rough game 
played by the peasants and yeomanry; and Guy, after 
watching many a bout among the men in the courtyard 
of the castle, had eagerly demanded instructions. There¬ 
after, from constant play with the men-at-arms, he had 
become so proficient that even they were forced to exert 
themselves to the utmost to ward off the boy’s attacks. 
So he waited quite confidently for the return of the 
peasant lad. 

The boy Alwyn was back quickly with the staves, 
also a large following of the peasants eager for a little 

[ 104 ] 







Mr/ I 

« ' 

* J ^ i 


Each held a short, thic\ oa\en staff 






















































































































































































































































































































































































amusement presumably at the expense of the young 
nobleman. Pushing and jostling each other good- 
naturedly, shouting and cheering for young Alwyn, 
they formed a large ring in the center of which stood 
the two boys. 

Guy glanced over the circle, then struck with an idea, 
he asked: “Is any one of ye Peter Hobson?” 

“Aye, I be Peter Hobson,” answered a man in the 
front row. 

“Well, Peter, I think thee a great fool to have left 
thy good home! However, I am thy lord’s son. For 
thy good wife’s sake I came after thee; so ’tis because 
of thee, I am here, and I count on thee to see I get fair 
play. All ready! ” he said, as he swung back to face his 
opponent. 

He had stripped off his velvet doublet, and looked 
very slim and small in his white shirt and long hose, 
contrasted with the other lad’s greater bulk, and heavy 
fustian clothing. Each held a short, thick oaken staff, 
with a hand grasping either end lightly. Each watched 
the other intently. Then Alwyn released the grip of his 
left hand, and brought his staff whirling up and slash¬ 
ing down toward Guy’s head. But both Guy’s hands 
came up, the bar between them caught and turned the 
blow. Guy followed it up with a quick, stinging rap 
on Alwyn’s leg. The free ends swung back to the wait¬ 
ing hands, and both were ready for a second attack. 

[ 107 ] 


Again and again one or the other attacked, now with 
the right hand, now with the left, while the little glen 
rang with the echoing crack and crash of the sturdy 
oaken staves. Alwyn, bigger and stronger, charged into 
the battle like a young bull; but Guy, alert, agile and 
smiling, was always ready for him. At first the crowd 
had cheers and applause for Alwyn only. Then came 
an occasional grunt of approval as Guy deftly caught 
and turned some mighty blow delivered by Alwyn’s 
stout wrist, always following with a quick parry. 

Then Alwyn made a pass at Guy’s ankles, which if 
it had reached its mark would have speedily ended the 
battle. Guy skipped lithely over it, at the same time 
catching Alwyn with a smart blow on the uncovered 
side of his head. Alwyn blinked, staggered, and top¬ 
pled over on the ground, while from the crowd came 
some cheers for the victor and some disappointed growls. 

Paying no heed to them, Guy dropped his staff, trot¬ 
ted over to the brook. Cupping his hands, he scooped 
up water and brought it back to splash in the face of his 
late opponent, running his cool, wet hands over the ris¬ 
ing bump on the other’s head. 

Alwyn sat up, “Eh, but that were a right smart rap! 
But Oi be right as a trivet now, thank’ee zur! An’ Oi’ll 
say for ’ee, ’ee do be a good quarterstaff man, for all ’ee 
be a lord’s son! Would be willin’ to give Oi thy hand, 
zur?” 


[ 108 ] 


“Indeed, that I will and right heartily!” answered 
Guy, adding ruefully, as Alwyn seized his extended 
hand in the grip of his big rough one, “only it is well 
for me, that it is after and not before our bout. In truth, 
I know not which is the worse—thy foot on my left 
hand or thy hand on my right!” 

The others pressed in on them, clapping both boys 
on the shoulders, offering to share their food with Guy. 
For in their eyes he had now proved himself by his 
ability not alone to play their game and to give and take 
hard knocks, but by his cheerful endurance of the long, 
hard march. Then bit by bit they drifted off to rest or 
find other forms of amusing themselves. At last there 
were left only Peter Hobson, Andrew the tanner, a 
third man, whom Guy rightly guessed to be the leader 
of the band, and Alwyn, who hung about watching 
Guy with a doglike admiration. 

“Oi would take ’ee home again, young master,” vol¬ 
unteered Peter. “But, ’tis near nightfall; nigh as far 
back as on to Lunnon; and Oi ha’ gi’ my word to join 
wi’ these men in petition to our King for relief from his 
heavy taxes, and they willna’ leave us go ” 

“Na’, we willna’!” assented Andrew, grimly. 

“But, good fellow, my people will grieve when I come 
not home, they will send out search for me, and it will 
go hard with you. And how will it serve thee if they 
find you not, to carry me with you to London?” 

[ 109 ] 


“See you, young sir,” said the third, a grave, clerkly- 
looking fellow, “we be called ‘bondmen ; without we do 
readily service unto such as ye, we be beaten. What 
have we done that we be so kept in servage? We are 
men, formed e’en as are our masters; why should we 
then, be made as beasts? 

“Thou goest clothed in velvet and furred camlet, we 
in poor cloth. Thou hast wines and good bread, we 
have bread of chaff and drink water. Thou dwellest in 
ease in thy strong castle, we work in rain and wind in 
the fields. Nay, thou shalt come with us to London: 
walk with us, talk with us, share with us our scant fare, 
and see how all manner of people now in any bondage 
will follow us with intent to be made free. And per¬ 
chance, if it come about that we do not prevail upon the 
King to provide us with some remedy, when thou art 
grown to man’s estate thou wilt remember all these 
things which thou wilt see and hear, and so act that our 
children may profit from it.” 

That night Guy slept under the open sky for the first 
time in his life. Alwyn lay close by him, nor did Guy 
know, though he slept more soundly for it, that Alwyn 
reached over and wrapped his own rough but warm coat 
about him, then crept close to Andrew for warmth for 
his own body. 

It was still dark when the sleepers awoke, and the 
march was resumed. Guy ached all over. His legs were 

[ 110 ] 


so stiff that he stumbled again and again as they crossed 
the field, rimed with frost and gleaming like silver in 
the greyness of coming dawn. Alwyn, stamping along, 
beating his arms across his body, cried: 

“Look ’ee, zur, do likewise. ’Twill warm ’ee!” 

Guy shivering so that his teeth chattered, answered, 
“I d-do hope s-something will-1, though I doubt it! I 
think a bite to eat would help.” He glanced at the black- 
browed Andrew, who never let him out of his sight. 
Then he drew closer to the country boy. 

“Listen, Alwyn,” he whispered, “we would get to 
London far faster on fuller stomachs, and I would fain 
be in London as soon as may be, that I may seek out my 
father’s house there. Now, Andrew Tanner and thy 
leader will not let me away; though, on my honor, I 
would rather go on to London from here, than try to 
find my way back! So, I will break off a piece of this 
gold chain, which I hid in my shirt yesterday, and thou 
shalt take it, and at the first village or farm, go and find 
us food, as much as thou can get!” 

But Alwyn shook his head in evident alarm, “If Oi 
should take that bit o’ gold, zur, they’d hang Oi for a 
thief, that a’ would! For why should a peasant lad have 
a gold chain? Na, zur, do na ask Oi to do it!” 

“Why no, Alwyn, my hunger does not demand thy 
life as the price of its satisfaction. But how hast thou 
come thus far with no meat?” 

[ in ] 


“We’ve cotched rabbits, eated apples, and they be good 
folk on the way, who ha’ give us milk or cider to drink. 
Or mayhap, we steal it! And in the forests, one can 
sometime draw a bow and bring down a stag! ” 

Alwyn whispered the last, for it was against the 
King’s law to kill the deer. Nevertheless, so it turned 
out. Their hunger appeased, the band marched sturdily 
onward, through lanes and byways, passing yet another 
night in the forests, until at last they had reached the 
road that led to London. There were wide pastures 
here, and pleasant meadowlands, golden now under the 
frosty air of fall; little rivers, that turned the wheels 
of mills; straggling villages; a glimpse of a manor 
house, set in wide park lands; or the deep notes of the 
bell from some abbey or priory ringing out across broad 
acres. Now too, there were more people to be met on 
the road: a knight on horseback followed by several 
retainers; a procession of churchmen bound on a pil¬ 
grimage; more peasants on the quest to see the King 
and lay their wrongs before him. 

The size of the band rapidly increased, and Guy won¬ 
dered what would happen when they finally arrived 
before the gates of the great city. Andrew threaded his 
way among them and talked to this one or that, always 
taking Guy with him. 

Though at first Guy raged against him for laying 
his hands on him, he soon took a deep interest in their 

[ ] 


talk. Here was a farm laborer, who had to work so hard 
on his lord’s land that he had no opportunity to raise 
even the barest living for himself, his wife and children; 
an artisan, whose taxes were so heavy there was no 
money left for him to live on; a laborer, who had been 
beaten for failing to hew and carry the required amount 
of wood for his master. 

Remembering the talk between his father and his 
uncle only two mornings back—and it seemed weeks 
ago, Guy vowed to himself that when he was a man 
grown and lord of his father’s barony, he too would 
strive to make his people content, and deal justly with 
them. Thoughtfully he turned to Alwyn, who always 
kept close at his heels. 

“Alwyn, why didst thou join these people? Why 
didst thou leave thy home?” 

Alwyn kicked a stone from under foot, and answered 
with his head down, “Oi ha’ no home, zur.” 

“No home?” wondered Guy. “Where are thy peo¬ 
ple?” 

“Oi ha’ no people, neyther. They came to our farm 
—the bailiffs—and demanded tax money from my 
feyther. He didna ha’ enough, and one o’ the men he 
pushed into the cot; and he—he so abused my mother 
—she were main buxom, and comely—that my feyther, 
he struck the man. They hanged my feyther for that, 
and my mother, she went crazed.” He ended, dully. 

[ ii3 ] 


“Poor, poor lad,” said Guy, softly. “But was there 
no abbey, where the good fathers would care for thee, 
and give thee a home and work?” 

“They be fat and lazy priests there; Oi was a-weary o’ 
work. Oi hated all the folk in the village—these men 
came a-talkin’ o’ Lunnon and the King, and how he 
would help us—Oi would like to see a king, and maybe 
be a soldier—” he broke off, shuffling his feet in the 
road and looking embarrassed. It was such a wonderful 
dream! 

“When I find my father, and we return to Donham, 
we will take thee with us,” promised Guy. “Thou canst 
become one of our men-at-arms, and perchance they 
will e’en teach thee to play at quarterstaves!” He 
laughed gaily, Alwyn with him, easing the tragic mem¬ 
ories of his sad story. 

The red sun was setting through the folds of a chill 
fog smelling sharply of the sea. Dimly in the distance, 
seeming to float in the fog, appeared towers bathed in 
the red glow of the sunset. They were fading so fast 
that Guy almost felt he had dreamed them. 

“That must be London at last!” he said to Alwyn. 
“Dost think we may get that far before the gates be 
closed?” 

“The fog, it do be deceitful-like, zur, and Oi canna’ 
tell how far it may be,” Alwyn replied. But all through 
the crowd there ran a feeling of excitement. A herds- 

[ 114 1 


man, driving his sheep to the fold, came toward them, 
his woolly charges filling the road from side to side. 

“Be ’ee for Lunnon?” he questioned interestedly, lean¬ 
ing on his long crooked staff. 

“Aye, that we be,” answered Andrew Tanner, shortly. 

“Mebby, ye’ll not be entering this night, mebby not 
at all!” 

“And why not, friend?” queried the leader. 

The old man laughed delightedly at being able to 
impart some information. 

“Eh, fust come an order from the Lord Mayor and 
the Council, that the gates of the city be closed agin ye 
—there be many, oh, a very great many! And it would 
seem the city were a-feared o’ ye! And they howled and 
yelled so at that, that the young King came out on the 
river in his boat to try to speak to them. But they was 
a-howlin’ so loud no one could hear aught he said. So 
he did go back, an’ the gates was closed! 

“Then all the rich people who live outside the city 
feared, and sent word to the Council that they were in 
peril o’ ye, to let ye in, an’ ha’ the King’s guard care for 
ye. So if ye hurry, mebbe ye’ll get in. Keep the spires 
an’ towers ahead o’ ye, follow your noses, an’ ye’ll get 
there!” He prodded the nearest woolly sheep into action, 
and moved on down the road, shouting back over his 
shoulder, “The tallest spire is ’Paul’s!” 

The city wall loomed up gray and forbidding ahead 

[ 115 1 


of them as they came down the road where the houses 
were crowded close together. But the great gateway 
flanked by two towers, was still open. The crowd 
poured into the narrow, dark muddy streets, where Guy, 
accustomed to the wide sweep of the country and the 
fresh pure air, felt choked. He thought as he looked up 
at the tall houses on either side, that surely they were 
about to fall right into the street. 

All the houses and stores were shuttered and bolted. 
The streets as they passed through them were empty 
and deserted. The crowd turned to the left and was 
soon on a wider street. The houses here were much 
more magnificent, and there were many beautiful 
churches. But still ahead of them and towering over 
all other buildings, rose the mighty spires of St. Paul’s 
Cathedral, and behind that, the vast bulk of the royal 
castle. A flock of seagulls screamed over the river as 
they dived for an evening meal; and here and there 
might be seen the tall mast of a ship. 

Constables and men-at-arms kept the rabble on their 
way. But at last they reached the wide spaces about the 
great grey castle. Here were also assembled an im¬ 
mense number of other poor creatures, who had come 
from far and near on this quest to the King, to better 
their condition. 

Guy’s one thought now was how to get away, and 
when he had escaped, how to find his father’s town 

[ ] 


house. But Andrew and the leader of their band were 
set to find and talk with the chief captains, Wat Tyler, 
Jack Straw, and the priest from Kent, John Ball. So 
where Andrew went, there went Guy perforce, and after 
them as a matter of course came Alwyn. 

At last they came to the chiefs—Tyler, a hard-faced, 
angry man who had killed a tax collector, and John Ball, 
a strange man with fiery eyes and a weak chin, stub¬ 
born, and fervently believing that all men were created 
equal and that no man should have more power or 
money than another. He greeted the newcomers 
warmly, though looked with stern disapproval at Guy, 
asking him why and by what right he should consider 
himself finer than Alwyn. Then hurrying on without 
waiting for an answer, Ball told them that the King had 
sent word he would meet with them in the afternoon 
of the following day. 

But all these men were getting restless, and out of 
control, and they feared an outbreak before the meeting, 
as their food was all gone, and the fog drifting in was 
cold and wet. There seemed nothing to be done how¬ 
ever, and Andrew and Clarke, as Guy heard the other 
called, slowly returned, stopping now and then to urge 
patience on some of the more vociferous of the mass. 

They had hardly reached the spot where they had 
left their own band, when an angry roar broke out be¬ 
hind them. Something—some little thing doubtless, as 

[ ] 


is often the case with a mob—had fired them, and the 
great mass of yelling, enraged men bore down upon the 
city. They tore the shutters from shops, in their search 
for food; they broke into wine shops, and inflamed with 
drink and food after their long fast, they broke open 
prisons, and freed the prisoners. Wilder and ever wilder 
grew their temper. Houses, even churches were dam¬ 
aged, and loud above the uproar came the shout: “Down 
with John of Gaunt! Down with John of Gaunt! ” The 
frenzied mob swept down the Strand to the beautiful 
palace of the King’s uncle, the Duke of Lancaster, in 
whose hands rested the reins of government. 

The onward surge of the crowd swept everyone along 
with it; Guy found himslf jostled and pushed back and 
forth. He was squeezed in between bodies so tightly 
that he could scarcely breathe, and could see nothing at 
all. But he fought to keep his feet, for those who fell 
were speedily trampled to death. 

The night was bright with the flare of blazing torches. 
Smoke lay like a blanket over all. Through it Guy 
could now and then see the flicker of flame run up a 
wall or leap from a window. And the roar of the crowd 
was like that of hungry wild animals. 

All through the mad nightmare he wondered what 
had become of Alwyn; of Peter whom Guy had come 
to London to rescue; of Andrew who had forced him 
to stay with them; and whether his father’s house was 
[ h8 ] 


one of those that were being broken into and wrecked. 
What was the portent in the loss of the Luc\ of the 
House? Would it mean his death in this terrible crush¬ 
ing tumult? Or worse, the downfall of the house of 
Donham itself through this wild uprising? And his 
own selfish recklessness was the cause of it all! 

Then, out of the crush and the crowd, Guy suddenly 
found himself flung free, on the swirling edge of the 
mass. His clothing had been nearly torn from him, 
and what was left hung in rags and tatters. His feet 
were sore, his body bruised, but he was alive and out 
of the mob. Now he must get away, and try to find his 
father’s house. In the glare of the burning palace of the 
Savoy, on which the hatred of the mob for John of 
Gaunt was venting itself, he looked for Alwyn, or 
Peter. But they had vanished, lost among the howling, 
fighting mass of people. Guy, fearful of being again 
caught up in the bedlam, slipped away down a side lane. 

Up one street, down another he went, vainly search¬ 
ing for some landmark, or someone to tell him where 
he could find his father’s house. Finally he was so tired 
that his legs refused to carry him further. He was near 
the arched doorway of some building. A lantern flick¬ 
ered dimly inside while the noise and shouting of the 
mob were far away. The weary lad sank down on the 
corner of the steps out of the wind, pulled his ragged 
garments as closely as possible over him, and slept. 

[ 119 1 


A hand on his shoulder was shaking him. A harsh 
voice bidding him: “Be off, thou varlet!” roused him. 
He lifted his head, staring bewilderedly about him, still 
dazed with sleep. 

“Come, off with ye ere I beat ye, ye vagabond! ” 

Morning was here, a new day. Perhaps this servant 
would tell him where he would find Donham House, 
and blinking, Guy looked up. The man’s kindly face, 
though his voice had been rough, was a familiar one. 
His livery was the familiar green and silver of the Don¬ 
ham household. Guy sprang to his feet. 

“Walter, Walter!” he cried, holding out his hands. 
“Is this my father’s house? And I, all unknowing came 
here, and slept on my own doorstep?” 

“My little master!” gasped the surprised servant. 
“ ’Tis thou thyself, in very truth! Ah, how my lord 
will rejoice. He is within, arrived last night, mad with 
grief over thy disappearance in this troublous time. 
Faith, ’twas but the fact that in the search for thee, 
when Henry the hostler found and restored the Luc\ 
that he had any hope of ever finding thee again.” 

A few days later, when young King Richard II rode 
out to the broad, open fields of Mile End to fulfill his 
promise to meet and talk with the peasants, in his train 
were Lord Donham and his son Guy. The boy was 
dressed again as befitted his rank, and was proudly wear¬ 
ing once more at his side the jeweled Luc\. 

[ 120 ] 


He was deeply interested in all that went on—in the 
handsome young King, in the great and famous Duke 
of Lancaster, in the king’s other uncle, the Duke of 
Gloucester. He decided privately that the King was a 
nice-looking boy, but that he, himself, would hate most 
awfully to be a king. There was responsibility enough 
in being a lord, particularly one who had to live up to 
the motto—Always Faithful! Then his eyes, wandering 
over the faces of the crowd, were caught and held by a 
short sturdy figure among the peasants—a boy. Guy’s 
hand sought his father’s arm to attract his attention: 

“Father, Father,” he whispered excitedly, “yonder is 
the lad Alwyn, whom I promised to take home to Don- 
ham Keep with us as I have told you. May I not send 
one of the men for him now?” 

Lord Donham nodded his approval, thinking that the 
rough experience among the peasants had taught the 
boy more in the ruling of himself, and in care and 
thought of these poor folk than he would have ever 
learned shut up in the convent under Prior Thomas. 

So when they rode back to Donham Keep, in the pack 
train was Peter Hobson, glad indeed to be returning 
with his kindly overlord, to his little home, his wife and 
children. While just behind his young master, very 
proud and happy, rode the boy Alwyn, dressed in the 
green and silver of the Donham livery. 


[ i2i ] 






CHAPTER IV 

1461 

SANCTUARY 

When Lancaster and York Fought 
for the Crown in England 

In which after fifty years , when the Donhams had 
carried the Luck to the wars in France, first under 
the brave and gay Prince Hal who became Henry V; 
and then under the great princes who ruled while 
Henry VI was a child, Edward Donham, bewildered 
by the presence of two kings in England, finds it is 
not always easy to know to whom to be faithful . He 
seeks sanctuary for a lady in distress during the 
Wars of the Roses. 


[ 123 ] 









I N about the year 1440, King Henry the VI of Eng¬ 
land, gentle, studious and fond of learning, en¬ 
dowed a school for “a Provost, ten teaching priests 
and sixty poor boys.” It was situated in the little village 
of Eton, across the river Thames from Henry’s mighty 
castle of Windsor. It was called the College of the 
Blessed Mary. Though meant for the education of poor 
boys, being under the patronage of the King, it was not 
very many years before the peers of the realm were send¬ 
ing their sons to be educated there also. Among them 
was the younger son of Lord Donham. 

The drone of voices in the recitation room rose and 
fell monotonously. It is a sound that in a close room 
on a warm spring day, makes a fellow very sleepy. 

[ 125] 


Edward Donham sat slumped down on the hard bench. 
It required an intense, concentrated effort to keep his 
eyes from closing. He blinked hard, but his lids 
drooped. Then his head jerked suddenly. He drew a 
deep breath, and straightened up again with a nervous 
glance toward Dan Martin, sitting at his desk at the 
head of the room. Dan Martin was a splendid fellow, 
best liked of all the dans or tutors of the teaching priests 
in the school. But he brooked no inattention during 
his classes. His eyes saw everything that went on. 

This day of all days he, Edward, must be free. For 
were not the King and his court passing by the school 
on their way from London to his castle of Windsor? 
A lark sang outside, its joyous notes falling down, down, 
crystal clear and sweet as honey in the still warm air. 
Edward’s eyes wandered to the window again. How 
green the trees were in their fresh new leafage. If he 
slid down on the seat, he could see the sky. But Dan 
Martin’s crisp, cool voice broke into his pleasant 
musings. 

“Edward! Thou are no squirrel, come out of the 
trees! Wouldst care to remain indoors, to study Greek 
history this afternoon?” And as he saw the dismay in'’ 
the boy’s wide blue eyes, he smiled and went on, “Then 
give thy mind diligently to thy tasks now.” 

Edward, startled and wide-awake, returned to his 
studies with renewed energy. 

[ 126 ] 


When at last the class was ended, Dan Martin rose 
to dismiss them, saying that the Provost of the College 
had given them a holiday for the rest of the day, that 
they might show respect to their royal patron as he 
passed by. Instantly the boys were on their feet, cheer¬ 
ing madly for the Provost, who had given them the holi¬ 
day; for the King because he was the cause of it; and 
for Dan Martin, who was a good fellow! Until at last, 
after unavailing efforts to stop them, Dan Martin caught 
up the whipping rod, made of a number of birch wands, 
and drove them from the room. 

Down the stair they went racing and shouting, Ed¬ 
ward leading. There was a wall about the college, along 
the road that wound up from Stoke Poges and beyond 
that, all the way to London town. It was along this 
road the King would come. The boys scrambled up on 
the wall, sitting in a long row on the top, chattering 
like so many magpies and looking like them in their 
black gowns and white collars. 

Roger Beaumont, sitting next to Edward, his arm 
about Edward’s shoulder, said, “Will he be very kingly, 
Ned, and ride a snow-white steed, and carry a sword?” 

“I hope he will, but I fear that he will not. My 
brother Robert is at court, and dost know what he said? 
Bend thy head close that I may whisper. He says ‘Henry 
is a monk, and no king at all,’ and also that on holy 
days, he weareth a haircloth shirt!” 

[ 127 ] 


Roger’s round eyes widened, “Oo-oh! Ned, if thy 
brother comes, let us ask permission to go up to the 
castle to see him. They say it is wondrous fine in the 
castle—” 

“Hey, here they come! Here they come!” shouted 
young Richard de Lacy, sitting at the farthest end of 
the wall. 

“Hurrah, hurrah! God bless King Henry. God bless 
our noble King!” cried the boys, jumping to their feet 
all along the wall, and waving their caps. For the long 
procession of knights, nobles, lords and ladies, priests 
and cardinals with all their attendants, advanced down 
the road; a river of color, tossing banners, fluttering 
pennons, gleaming armor, gaily curvetting horses. In 
the center, surrounded by the household guards, floated 
the great, white silken standard blazoned with the scar¬ 
let cross of St. George. 

A length behind it rode the King, a stoutish man with 
a gentle, dull face, and of all that gay company the sim¬ 
plest in dress. His face brightened when he saw the 
boys. He smiled and nodded, while they cheered heart¬ 
ily. Then reining in his horse, he raised his hand. The 
boys, seeing that he wished to speak to them, slipped and 
scrambled down from the wall, standing quietly and 
respectfully while he cleared his throat and spoke in a 
slow, heavy voice: 

“Be good boys, good boys! Gentle and teachable, and 
[ 128 ] 


servants of the Lord. Walk always in the paths of vir¬ 
tue.” And to the two teaching brothers with them he 
said, “Ground them well in virtue and knowledge, 
reverend masters. Forsooth and forsooth, we had rather 
put up with their falling short in musical matters, than 
in the knowledge of the Scriptures.” 

He beckoned his almoner from among his atten¬ 
dants, and receiving from him a small bag, he bestowed 
a silver shilling on each lad, and once more the caval¬ 
cade moved on down the road. 

“A whole silver shilling, Ned, what shall ye do with 
a silver shilling?” asked Roger. 

“Oh, let us give it to the Provost, or one of the 
clerks to keep for us till there be a fair, or some need; 
for otherwise we might lose it, and there is naught to 
spend it on now. There go Richard and William Tregor 
to the river. Hurry or they will be out in the boat be¬ 
fore we can join them!” 

The boat was a flat-bottomed one, and they pushed 
it along the river’s edge with the aid of a long pole, 
taking care to stay close enough to the shore for the 
pole to reach the bottom. They wrangled good- 
naturedly as to who should have the pole first, until 
Roger who was inclined to be fat and lazy said cheer¬ 
fully: 

“I do not mind at all, if someone has my turn!” 
And he settled down in the middle of the boat, where 

[ 129 ] 


his weight was comfortably adjusted. William Tregor 
took the pole, and driving it deep into the water, pushed 
out from the bank. Laughing and talking, they punted 
their boat slowly along the Thames toward the long 
bridge that led to Windsor. 

Edward lay on his back in the bottom of the boat, 
watching the tall trees make patterns against the blue 
of the sky, dreaming daydreams, for there was no one 
to forbid it now. The rapid clack-clack of hoofbeats 
on the bridge caught his attention as they drew near, 
and he sat up. The rider slackened his pace when he 
saw the boat, and waved his hand. 

“Oh, ’tis my brother, Robert!” cried Ned, excitedly. 
“Robert, Robert,” he called. 

“Good day to ye, little brother! ” The tall young man 
called back merrily, “I am but now on my way to ask 
permission for ye to come and spend a day with me at 
the castle, if thy masters will allow it.” 

“ ’Tis just what Roger and I were wishing for. I 
may bring Roger too?” 

“I will see that it is all arranged, an thy behavior 
warrants it! So, as his Majesty bid ye walk in the path 
of virtue, now I must haste on my way. Fare ye well, 
master mariners all! ” And laughing, he rode on, mak¬ 
ing a bright spot of color in his long crimson robe bor¬ 
dered with brown fur, as he passed under the wide 
spreading elms at the end of the bridge. 

[ 130 ] 


A seemingly endless week, filled with unusually diffi¬ 
cult studies at last wore itself to a close. The morning 
of the day of the promised visit dawned and the two 
boys gaily took their way across the long bridge. They 
stopped first to skip some nice flat stones picked from 
the road as they passed. They paused again in the mid¬ 
dle of the bridge to drop a handful of crumbs from a 
bun Roger had concealed in his doublet at breakfast 
lest he be hungry before dinner time. The crumbs fell 
into the water to lure a pair of gliding swans nearer 
to the two boys. 

On the left of the road, as they left the bridge, the 
forest grew thickly from the river’s bank up to the grey 
walls of the castle. To the right the village straggled 
along, offering varied attractions. Two men tossing 
horseshoes held Roger till Ned called him to watch an¬ 
other who was training a young cock to fight. A rose 
bush in a nearby cottage garden attracted Ned. He 
reached out and pulled off one of the lovely white flow¬ 
ers, thrusting its stem through his belt. 

So in one way or another an hour passed before they 
finally arrived at the gatehouse of the great castle, where 
Robert waited impatiently. He hugged his young 
brother affectionately, but berated him soundly for be¬ 
ing late and keeping him waiting at the gatehouse. 

“Forsooth and forsooth,” he laughingly repeated the 
King’s favorite expression, “dost think I have naught 

[ 131 ] 


to do other than wait on my young rascal of a brother? 
Nay, but I have duties to perform and for that you are 
late, you must needs escort yourselves! Yonder is 
St. George’s Chapel; behind it the houses of the Dean 
and Canon. Mind you do not pry into dwellings! Above 
the Round Tower is the Hall of St. George. The officer 
on guard there is a friend of mine and perchance will 
give you a glimpse of its glories. My lodgings are on 
the south wall of the upper ward; look for me there 
when the sun is past the middle, and we will dine. I’ll 
warrant ye’ll be ready! But where got ye this?” he 
added, with a serious look on his handsome face, as he 
took from Ned’s belt the white rose Ned had picked. 
“Ye must not wear a white rose here, you know!” And 
smiling, he strode away. 

They had done and seen all that had been suggested 
by Robert, and more. The shade of a tree in the quad¬ 
rangle of the upper ward looked pleasant after their 
exertions, the thick green turf inviting. So they sat and 
watched the constantly moving groups of gay courtiers, 
coming and going from the royal residence and the state 
apartments. 

Great lords and beautiful ladies strolled here and 
there, with much soft laughter and chatter. Occasion¬ 
ally someone would stop to speak to the two lads in the 
dress of the King’s school. In a window nearby, a young 
man sat idly strumming on a lute. A girl came and 
[ 132 ] 


stood behind him, touching his cheek lightly with a red, 
red rose. He smiled up at her, but caught the rose out 
of her hand and tossed it from the window, saying: 
“What dost thou do with a red rose, sweet?” The 
scene was very gay and charming. 

“When I am a man grown,” observed Roger, “I too 
will sit on a window sill, clad in silks and velvets; and 
play on a lute to a lovely lady, as doth yonder gallant! ” 

“I would far rather be a soldier, perhaps to help win 
back France for England and the King again; and 
have everyone cheer me as a great hero. I would wear 
at my side the beautiful Sword won by an ancestor of 
mine in the Crusades. ’Tis called the Luc\ of the 
House, and as long as we have it and bear it faithfully, 
so long will our house prosper. Of course, ’tis Robert’s 
right to wear it, for he is the eldest son, but if I became 
a great hero—” 

Someone stopped beside them. Edward lazily noted 
the heavy, broad-toed shoes—like a countryman’s, he 
thought, and out of place here as the King’s somber gar¬ 
ments had looked out of place among all his gay cour¬ 
tiers. At the thought, Edward glanced up quickly. A 
man clad in a long dark-colored robe with a hood 
over a dark tunic that reached below his knees, stood 
above them. Edward scrambled to his feet hastily, giv¬ 
ing Roger a nudge as he rose. 

“Oh, wait Ned, ’tis nice, comfortable and lazy here. 

[ i33 ] 


Tell me more about this wonderful sword of thine—” 
he urged. But Ned hissed; 

“Up, Roger, ’tis His Majesty the King! ” And Roger, 
all confusion sprang up. 

Both boys dropped at once to their knees. 

“Ah, thou art pretty lads,” he said to the kneeling 
boys. “Whence comest thou?” 

Roger and Edward rose, and Edward replied: “We 
are here from Your Majesty’s College of the Blessed 
Mary in Eton, good my liege, visiting with my brother 
who hath come from London in thy train.” 

“ ’Tis no place for thee, here amongst these foolish 
butterflies. We would not have our boys wholly lose 
their good morals, amongst the profligate ways and do¬ 
ings of our courtiers. We pray daily that these may be 
saved from their evil ways. Do thou be diligent in 
learning from the good priests at our school, and walk 
always in the ways of the Lord.” He smiled kindly at 
them. “Stay away from court and castle till hast gained 
much knowledge of all things good and true! ” 

He reached out a hand, and both lads knelt again, 
and kissed it. He patted their heads and resumed his 
walk, his head bent and the fingers of his right hand 
fitted to those of his left. The stately Archbishop of 
Canterbury with Bishop Waynflete, Provost of the Col¬ 
lege, hastened up to join him, but the King apparently 
did not so much as notice them. 


[ i34 ] 


Edward looked at Roger, and Roger at Edward. 
“Roger,” said Edward, thoughtfully, “I think Robert 
was right, he is more monk than King. He would like 
us all to become monks, over at Eton. No, I’ll never 
fight to win back France for him, he wouldn’t want it! 
But let us find Robert’s lodging. I am hungry.” 

“Hey, now, what are the long faces about?” Robert 
greeted them cheerily in his own apartment. “Art 
nearly famished? I am! Come, we will go and dine, 
that you may go back to your college as fat as two little 
piglets! ” 

In the great dining hall hung with magnificent tapes¬ 
tries blazoned with the escutcheons of the great lords 
of the land, Edward found himself seated next a stout, 
merry-eyed old lady, who promptly started to talk to 
him. Fortunately for Ned’s appetite, she seemed to ex¬ 
pect no answers. 

“Well, well, my dear, which do you wear, a red or a 
white rose? Oh la! I should remember that here at 
Windsor, we must forsooth, all be red! But, gra’mercy! 
Burley,” she cried speaking over Edward’s head to a 
man beyond him, “didst hear that the King would not 
even look at the baby Prince, when Buckingham pre¬ 
sented him? Nay, not even when the Queen begged 
him to give his little Highness a father’s blessing! They 
say that York will be in London next week. Dear, dear! 
His son Edward too, to say nothing of Warwick! Well, 

[ i35 ] 


I think if the King is mad, as they say—What’s that you 
say, Robert Donham? Oh—my dear,” she went on, 
turning back to Ned, “do not listen to all a garrulous old 
lady may say! Form your own opinions. You’ll have 
to soon enough! Here, have more cakes. Boys like 
cakes!” 

Ned laughed and accepted the cakes. But later as 
Robert walked with them down the road toward the 
river in the long spring twilight, he was still puzzling 
over the odd things he had heard and seen. 

“Robert, what is all this talk about roses, what does 
it all mean? All that the Countess Wykeham said at 
dinner. You took my white rose from me this morning. 
Later I saw a man take a red rose out of a woman’s 
hand and toss it aside. Why?” he asked. 

“Why, little brother,” Robert answered, “the white 
rose is the emblem of the house of York; they call the 
son, ‘The Rose of Rouen’, because he was born in that 
city. A great many people think that the Duke of York 
should be King, instead of King Henry whose followers 
wear the red rose. For the Duke of York is descended 
from the elder branch of the royal house, and stood in 
line to inherit the crown until the Queen presented us 
with a Prince to wear it! 

“And now, who knows—I doubt not there will be 
fighting!” he finished, with a shake of his head. “But 
come, this is naught for you to worry your heads over! 
[ 136 ] 


Art over-young to fight! Run along back to your stud¬ 
ies; I’ll see thee again before I return to London.” He 
stood for a while on the riverbank, watching until the 
boys vanished into the shadows of the trees on the other 
side. 


^ 

Seven years had passed since that soft spring day in 
Windsor. Ned, grown tall and manly, wearily leaned 
against a tree, hoping to get a little shelter from the rain 
that dripped ceaselessly from a grey, leaden sky. Nearby 
his four companions, regardless of the storm, quar¬ 
relled angrily. Ned’s horse, as wet as he, stood deject¬ 
edly at his shoulder. Ned pulled his heavy cloak closer 
about him, wondering disconsolately if it would ever 
stop raining. If it didn’t, he thought whimsically, the 
river which ran below Donham Castle not so very far 
away from this spot, would overflow its banks again, 
the mill-dam would go out at the Abbey; and then 
where would the monks’ fish be! 

He chuckled softly to himself at the idea, but a muf¬ 
fled sob brought him back to his present surroundings. 
He was sorry for poor Queen Margaret. He wished he 
hadn’t been sent on this errand which had resulted in 
her capture—she wept and prayed so continuously! 
Ugh! he spluttered to himself, as a cold trickle of water 
ran down his neck. This was nearly as bad as that 

[ i37 ] 


battle in the snow at St. Albans two years ago come 
Shrove Tuesday. Henry’s army had routed York’s, his 
father and his brother Robert had been killed then, and 
now he was Lord Donham. That was the first fighting 
he had ever seen. He was only sixteen at the time, and 
since then, there had been nothing but fighting. First 
one side won, then the other, until at last Edward of 
York had taken Henry of Lancaster prisoner and Queen 
Margaret and the little Prince had become fugitives. 

Of course, Ned’s thoughts ran on, the coronation in 
London had been a right royal, joyous occasion, and 
King Edward was a right royal King. But oh, Ned was 
so weary of war. How he would like to be back in Don¬ 
ham Castle, and at peace! 

The voices rose louder, and more angrily. They would 
be fighting amongst themselves soon, Ned thought dis¬ 
gustedly, and he peered around the big bole of the oak 
under which he stood. It was a beastly sight. No one 
would ever think those four quarreling men were gentle¬ 
men of England! It wasn’t decent to rob the lady of 
her jewels and treasure. 

The Queen crouched against a rock a few feet away 
from him, her arm about the little Prince who stood at 
her side. Ned’s movement had attracted her attention, 
and she lifted great, piteous black eyes to him. He 
noticed that a lock of hair was plastered wet against her 
cheek. 


[ 138 ] 


“Sir,” she whispered, “thou alone of all these men 
hast a kindly look. Thou art young; think of thy 
mother. Have pity on another mother in sore distress! 
Help me to escape! ” 

Edward moved uncomfortably. What a horrible pre¬ 
dicament ! He was a liegeman of King Edward and it 
would be traitorous to help his enemy to escape. But 
back into his mind flashed the old troubling thought— 
who was the rightful king? Edward of York who had 
won the crown, or Henry of Lancaster, the weak, mad 
old king? 

Ned’s hand lightly caressed the jeweled hilt of his 
Sword. Always Faithful—that was the Donham motto. 
But to whom should he be faithful? It was unknightly 
to refuse to succor a lady in distress. And the little 
Prince. Ned thought swiftly of his own adored mother, 
but he could not risk endangering her by taking them 
there. 

“Sir, sir!” wailed the Queen, “for the sake of our 
blessed Savior, have pity!” 

She asked in the Holy Name of our Savior! And like 
a flash, a vision of the Abbey by the purling water of the 
little river, leaped to Ned’s mind. This was Sanctuary, 
if he could get them there! It was only a matter of 
some ten or twelve miles, and he knew that country as 
one knows the face of a friend. 

He loosened the bridle of Thor. The animal whinnied 

[ i39 ] 


softly. He was cold and wet too, and would be glad of a 
run on well known ground. 

“Madam,” he spoke softly. She rose swiftly, and si¬ 
lently came to him, holding her son by the hand. 

“Mount behind me. Set my lord the Prince before 
me, and I will save thee, or die! Although,” he added 
grimly, “death seemeth to me the more likely of the 
two! ” 

He set his foot in the stirrup, and cautiously swung 
into the saddle, reaching down his arms for the little 
prince, a badly frightened little lad who bravely held 
his peace and fought back his tears, though Ned could 
feel the boy shudder in his arms. 

The wrangling of his companions continued so loud¬ 
ly that all other sounds were covered, and as soon as Ned 
had assisted the Queen to mount behind him, he turned 
Thor. Leaning forward he whispered in the horse’s ear, 
“Home, boy!” 

The silky black ears signalled back that the horse un¬ 
derstood and as though aware of the responsibility he 
bore, Thor stepped silently away. The soggy turf sucked 
at his hoofs, a branch snapped. Ned caught his breath, 
but it passed unnoticed by the four men who had for¬ 
gotten that he had been with them. The trees shone wet 
through the downpour. Ned drew the little Prince back 
against himself, wrapping his cloak over them both. 

“Wilt keep thee a trifle warmer, Your Highness,” he 

[ 140 1 


whispered into the child’s ear, chuckling inwardly. The 
little boy was such a forlorn, bedraggled bit to be called 
“Your Highness”, while that clever, powerful man in 
London did so much look the part! 

“Thou art very kind, sir,” the child answered in a 
weary little voice. “So many people are unkind. The 
Queen, my mother, is she safe?” 

“Madam,” said Ned, over his shoulder, “Art safe? 
The child would know. I fear me, comfort is beyond 
possibility.” 

“I am well enough, but can we not make more 
speed?” 

“Nay, Lady, I dare not venture on the road. If they 
follow, we can escape them better here for I know this 
forest well. But ’tis too wet to go faster. Also Thor is 
carrying double and I may not ask too much of him 
now, as we may need his strength later, if we are pur¬ 
sued ! ” 

They plodded on through the wet woods for some 
time, in utter silence. The child slept in Edward’s arms, 
comforted by the warmth of his cloak, and the rain 
stopped. 

The trees thinned out. A road crossed ahead of them, 
the water running in little torrents down either side. 
Overhead the grey clouds were blowing out in ragged 
wisps, the sky brightening in rosy streaks. 

Ned tightened his reins, fearful of Thor’s slipping 

[ 141 1 


as he stepped cautiously out into the thick ooze of the 
road. The horse picked his way daintily across, and 
once more they struck out, but through open land here, 
pasture and orchard. Ned drew a deep breath of relief; 

“Only a little longer, Madam,” he said, “and thou 
wilt be safe!” 

Then before the Queen could reply, a shout rang out 
behind them. Ned threw a quick look over his shoul¬ 
der. The rain no longer hid them with a protecting cur¬ 
tain, and far back across the fields, he could see four 
horsemen plunging through the mud of the road. But 
even as he looked the leading horse overreached in his 
stride, slipped and went down, his rider with him. The 
second reined back, but Ned waited to see no more. 

“Pray, Madam,” he shouted. “Pray as ye never prayed 
before! God and His holy angels help us, for if those 
fiends catch thee now—Well, Thor and I are at home 
here, and but that he carries double, they’d see nothing 
more than his tail waving in the wind! Do your best 
for us, Thor, and by God’s help, we will beat them yet! ” 
he ended, patting the horse’s neck. The black ears flick¬ 
ered back their answering signal, and the gallant animal 
raced on, sure-footed and swift, across the orchard. 

A thick hawthorne hedge loomed up ahead of them. 
Ned felt the powerful muscles under him gather. 

“Hold tight, Madam!” he cried, as the horse sprang 
clear of the ground, and they flew over the obstruction. 
[ 142 ] 


Ned had an instant’s agonizing fear—if he should slip 
in the mud, they would be done, and within the very 
sight of safety! But he landed clear on a fairly firm 
roadbed, and on they galloped. 

A high stone wall rose on their left. The Abbey wall! 
Only a short distance further now. Far ahead through 
the lifting clouds, a towered and battlemented hill reared 
itself. 

“See, Your Highness,” Ned cried to the boy in his 
arms, “that is my home, Donham! And when this is 
done, and thou art safe, I shall go home to my mother, 
and fight no more for this king or that king! Just try 
to be faithful to my God, my country and mine own 
people!” 

At an open gate in the Abbey wall, he swung Thor 
suddenly; an instant later, pulled him up at the very 
steps of the Abbey church. He could hear the thunder 
of pursuit. Holding the little Prince in his arms, he 
freed his foot from the stirrup, and sprang down, turn¬ 
ing to offer his hand to the Queen. Then he hurried 
them across the steps, into the great church, and up 
through the nave. 

Above the high altar, Christ the Pitiful, reached out 
His arms to the hunted: “Come unto Me, all ye that are 
desolate and oppressed.” They passed on between the 
choir stalls, and the chanting monks. Edward was con¬ 
scious only of color, rich, quivering in the glow of many 

[ M3 ] 


tall candles, and of that holy Figure above the altar. 

Then behind him a door clanged, voices broke the 
calm; armored feet tramped in the nave. But Ned was 
at the altar rail. 

“Sanctuary, Father, in the Name of God!” he gasped. 

“Enter, son, and find peace,” answered a gentle voice. 
“Thou art safe here.” Then the priest’s words rang out 
clarion clear, echoing down the long nave and on up 
through the dim arches of the high vaulted roof: 

“Hold! These are the protected of God. This is 
Sanctuary! ” 

Many were the noble houses of England whose fam¬ 
ilies were wiped out of existence during the terrible 
years of the War of the Roses. But Edward Donham 
quietly lived out his life in the grim old castle high on 
its hill, content, with his family growing about him, 
to serve his people and his God well and faithfully. Fie 
saw England united again under King Henry VII, 
happy and prosperous; he heard of an Italian sea cap¬ 
tain who sailed three Spanish ships out over the edge 
of the western sea, and there discovered new land and 
strange people. He saw his young grandson, another 
Jocelyn, with the Luc\ at his side, leave Donham to 
help win back France for King Henry VIII, as long 
ago he himself had dreamed of doing for Henry VI. 
But after one battle peace was made at last between the 
two nations. 


1144 ] 


Edward Donham died a happy old man. And he did 
not know that before many more years the beautiful 
Abbey of St. Cross that he loved so well would be a 
stark, bare ruin, a tribute to the greed of Henry VIII; 
or that under Henry’s daughter Queen Mary, England 
would lose Calais, its last possession in France. 



[ i45 ] 















CHAPTER V 

1585 

THE LUCK GOES ADVENTURING .. 

When Elizabeth Was Queen in England 
and the Seas Foamed with English Keels 

In which Richard Donham and his two brothers 
see Dra\e of Devon sail into the harbor of old Ply¬ 
mouth. They hear an old mon\ chanting in a ruined 
monastery. Richard sees it as a prophecy, and carry¬ 
ing the Luck with him, he sails forth to new lands 
with his hero, Captain Sir Francis Dra\e . 


r 147 ] 





















“Oh Nature, to old England still 
Continue these mistakes; 

Still give us for our Kings such Queens 
And for our ducks such Drakes!” 


T HE wind caught the words of this latest and 
most popular song of the day from the lips 
of three young singers. The lads singing so gaily 
were the three young sons of Lord Donham, one of whose 
holdings was a manor on the river Tamar in Devon¬ 
shire near to Plymouth. Here he had sent his family 
to live for a time during the construction of a large and 
commodious manor house at Donham, which would be 
more convenient as a dwelling place than was the old 
grey castle. 


r i49 ] 


The boys were happy at Donham-St. Ronans. But 
few were the days that did not find them away from 
the manor, either sailing their small boat down to Ply¬ 
mouth, or riding down on their sturdy little Devon 
ponies to watch the great ships come and go. Today— 
a particularly great day, for were there not rumors fly¬ 
ing of more than one fleet due?—they had ridden, for 
the Lady Anne Donham, their mother, was worried 
because of the high wind blowing. 

The boys had spent most of the day on the Hoe, as 
that was by far the best place to sight the incoming 
ships. There was nothing quite so glorious as a galleon 
sailing up the sound, her great square sails bellying in 
the wind as she rounded St. Nicholas Island—Drake’s 
Island, some people were beginning to say. The new 
name had appeared soon after the memorable day when 
that blithe sailor had come home laden with treasure. 
He heard that the Spanish Ambassador had come to 
Queen Elizabeth with a wild tale that “El Draque” had 
been playing pirate among King Philip’s ships, so Drake 
had slipped behind the island to hide until the trouble 
had blown over. 

Far out three tall gleaming ships were standing in. 

“There they are! ” cried the smallest of the singers, a 
fair, curly-haired little lad. “The Elizabeth Bonaventure 
of Sir Francis, Vice-Admiral Frobisher’s Primrose, and 
the Sovereign 


[ 150 ] 


“Nay, ’tis the Raleigh, the Delight, and the Swallow 
of Sir Humphrey Gilbert. I say Sir Francis can never 
get in tonight! ” contradicted the second. 

“Of course ’tis Sir Francis, Philip!” put in the third. 
“He but said that to tease thee, Jocelyn. These be ships 
royal, and Sir Humphrey’s are not! Besides, there flies 
Sir Francis’ own flag!” 

“Oh, there will be brave doings, when he meets the 
Spanish galleons!” cheered little Jocelyn. “They fear 
him beyond anyone, and yet he is a merry man! ” 

“But a very great general, withal! I wish that I might 
sail out with him,” said Richard wistfully. “Come, up, 
you lazybones. Look at the townsfolk swarming down 
there on the dock, and then you say ’tis not Sir Francis 
himself. Who else would so many turn out for? Let us 
get down too.” 

So arm in arm, Jocelyn, Philip and Richard Donham, 
singing their favorite song, swung along down the Hoe 
to cheer England’s greatest seaman and Devon’s darling 
—Sir Francis Drake—as he sailed up the bay to the 
harbor of Plymouth. He was putting in to refit, before 
going forth to release the fleet of corn ships which King 
Philip of Spain had seized. 

The little town was full to overflowing already, with 
General Carlisle and his ten companies of soldiers who 
were to sail with Drake. Later when the rest of the 
squadron came in there would be even more. Then too, 

[ 151 ] 


Sir Richard Grenville was outfitting a fleet for Sir Wal¬ 
ter Raleigh’s colony that was to be started in that wild 
new land far across the seas. So it was an unusually 
exciting time for the folk of Plymouth. 

Through the crowd, the boys wriggled their way, 
dodging under men’s arms, or asking politely, “Is there 
room for a little fellow to see?” Jocelyn’s curly head, 
big blue eyes and winning smile rarely failed to receive 
a hearty: 

“ ’Es fay, ’e be surely a little ’un for a crowd! ” from 
the good-natured Devonshire folk, many of whom had 
known Lord Donham’s little sons since babyhood. 

When at last they emerged at the water front, flushed 
and tousle-haired, the guns on the Admiral’s ship were 
thundering forth their salute. Then as the sheets gave 
way, the ships swung into the wind, the anchor ropes 
whined as the huge anchors slid into the water, the sails 
rattled to the decks, and the great ships sat as lightly 
on the breast of the waters as the Queen’s swans sit on 
the waters of the Thames. An instant later a longboat 
was lowered over the side and manned. Her oars flashed 
as she cut through the water, while the throngs on the 
shore roared forth their welcome to their hero—Drake 
of Devon! 

“ ’Tis high time we started back home. We’ll stop 
and have some berries and clotted cream at Mother 
Brown’s, or what say some cakes and ale at the Queen’s 
[ 152 ] 


Head before we start? Mayhap some of the captains 
from the ships would be in, even Sir Francis himself!” 
suggested Philip. 

“I much misdoubt me that Landlord Timothy would 
let us,” laughed Richard. “He’d say: ‘Ninni, young 
masters, whur’s the wor-rd that I let ye have ale and 
ye feyther not her-re. Get along wit ye, the ponies are 
stampin’ in the co-ourt yonder.’ ” 

“He always does. He thinks we are still but babes, 
with nurses at our heels! ” grumbled Philip. 

“Perchance we may see or hear somewhat as we go 
in for the ponies,” offered little Jocelyn. 

Under the creaking signboard, where in many gay 
colors was displayed a distressingly cross-eyed represen¬ 
tation of Good Queen Bess, the three stopped to gaze 
through the small diamond panes of the window into 
the wide taproom, with its low ceiling and smoke-stained 
rafters. At a table near the window, two men sat talking 
together over platters of roast beef and big pewter mugs 
of ale: “Hey, laddies, come in,” called one, “an’ we’ll 
tell thee tales of our gay venturing that will make your 
blood run faster, I’ll warrant!” 

Nothing loath, the boys entered, dragged up chairs 
and scrambled onto them while pouring out questions: 
“Master Barnaby, we saw ye come up the harbor, and 
oh, it was a gallant sight, with the sun shining on the 
spars.” 


[ i53 1 


“Good Master Barnaby, did ye meet Spaniards? Did 
ye get much treasure?” 

“Are ye going out to take back the corn ships the 
Dons stole?” 

“Did ye know Master Davis has gone forth to search 
for the Northwest Passage?” 

“Is it true King Philip has offered forty thousand 
pounds’ reward to any who will catch Sir Francis?” 

“Softly, softly, ye rascals, how can a poor sailorman 
answer so many questions at once, or for matter of that, 
know all the answers? Here, wench,” turning to the 
barmaid, “bring the young gentlemen cakes and ale to 
fill their bellies, whilst I fill their ears with tales of 
go-r-re, and bl-loody buccaneers! 

“Now, will I tell thee how we sailed in bitter cold 
fogs and snow, through the straits called by the name 
of the great Magellan. That was when Sir Francis— 
only he was but Master Drake in those days—changed 
the name of his ship from Pelican to Golden Hind, all 
to honour his good friend Sir Christopher Hatton whose 
arms bear a golden hind on them. In a gale we lost 
the Marigold, but swept south where the Atlantic Ocean 
and the South Seas meet around high and icy cliffs. 
By-and-by we picked up an Indian pilot, and so we 
sailed on northward till we came to the harbour of 
Valparaiso, which is a Spanish town. 

“There lay a great Spanish ship, that sat low in the 

[ i54 ] 


water with her heavy cargo, and they beat us a right 
merry salute!” And the two sailors pounded it out on 
the table with their tankards. Then they continued. 

“The Dons had ne’er seen any but their own ships on 
those coasts, so they had never a thought of danger when 
we lay alongside, until Tom Moon here scrambled over 
the side, shouting ‘Abaxo perro! (Down, you dogs!). 
And we laid onto them lustily. We put her crew under 
hatches, for they were but few, and we took our prize 
to sea, where we found us much gold and pearls, and a 
great many jars of good Chile wine! She was a good 
ship and we’d lost the Marigold, so we kept her, and 
made the Negras work for us, though the Spaniards 
we kept prisoners.” 

Big-eyed, the boys sat on, their cakes and ale that 
they had been eager for nearly forgotten. “Oh, please 
tell us more! ” they clamored when he paused. 

“Eh, Moon, you carry on; my throat be mighty dry 
with so long a talk!” 

So Master Moon went on to tell them how in Calleo 
they sailed into a fleet of ships laden with silver bars. 
“We speedily relieved them of the silver and picked up 
word of a galleon, by name Cacafuego, that had but 
recently weighed anchor. So merrily we went our ways 
after her. But before we picked her up, there were oth¬ 
ers that gave up what they carried on our demand. 
Frankie was aye a great captain! After a day or two 

[ i55 ] 


we overhauled the galleon, and her captain waited for 
us, thinking—never a doubt—but we were Spaniards 
too, till Frankie hailed them! They didn’t try to run 
then, though they refused to strike their flag, till we let 
loose with our bow pieces, and having a fair slant o’ 
wind slid off as she gave us the Pope’s Blessing. But 
every shot fell short of us. 

“She was no fighter, and when Frankie shot their 
mast overboard, they yielded, and we hooked on to her 
rail, and for four days we lay a-shifting of her cargo. 
Gold and silver—bars of it piled high. And jewels! 
Four days it took us, and then Frankie, he wrote this 
senor a safe conduct should Master Winter come up 
with him—that is ever Frankie’s way! But they tried 
to tag us pirates, when we came home all around the 
world. Hey-ho!” 

“Did Master Winter catch him again?” asked Jocelyn. 

, “Na, he missed the blow that took us ’round the Horn, 
and after waiting a month, went home thinking we 
were lost.” 

“But they did not treat you as pirates after all?” put 
in Philip. 

“Bless you, no. Frankie sent Queen Bess such won¬ 
derful gifts that when he brought the Golden Hind up 
the Thames, didn’t she come aboard to a banquet, and 
herself knight him! ” 

“And now, you laddies had best be starting home, or 
[ 156 ] 


your Lady Mother will be sending down looking for 
you/’ said Master Barnaby. 

Reluctantly the three got up. Moon, insisting that 
they take the last of the cakes with them to eat on the 
way, walked to the door to see them mount their wait¬ 
ing ponies and scamper away into the twilight. 

They were late, they were scolded. But their minds 
were so full of the sea, scudding foam, tall ships, Span¬ 
ish doubloons, caskets of jewels, that even eight pages 
of Latin prose for punishment did not daunt them. 
Philip and Jocelyn talked endlessly, but Richard was 
unusually silent for several days; then suddenly, he was 
once more his old gay self and took command, laughing 
and joyous. 

There were long days, ranging far afield on the windy 
downs, with the crisp, springy turf under foot; the clean 
sharp odor of the golden gorse in their nostrils. One 
day Richard sailed their little boat, the Swallow, up the 
Tamar all the way to Tavistock. Here they rambled 
through the ruined buildings of the Priory, still disclos¬ 
ing some of their past glory, though nearly fifty years 
had passed since the abbeys had been destroyed and the 
monks dispersed under orders from King Henry. The 
Priory was a ghostly old place, with the wind wailing 
through the broken arches and empty windows. A door 
still hanging on its rusty hinges, creaked and slammed. 
Jocelyn shivered: “Let’s get back to the boat, Dick!” 

[ i57 1 


A soft footfall padded across an empty room over them. 
Philip jumped to his feet: 

“Come on, Josse; if Diccon wants to moon around 
here, let him do it by himself, or,” dropping his voice 
mysteriously, “with these others! I don’t like to meet 
ghosts, not even those of the holy monks themselves!” 

At the gaping hole by which they had entered—the 
ruin of an exquisitely carved doorway—he paused. His 
grasp of little Jocelyn’s hand tightened, for beyond he 
heard the pad-pad of footsteps on the broken stair lead¬ 
ing down from the old chapter house. By this time, 
Dick had joined them and the three stood as though 
petrified. On the fragment of wall beyond the door, a 
shadow moved. A voice hardly more than a breath 
chanted softly. Slowly a figure emerged into sight. A 
black monk’s habit made the thin white face and silvery 
hair seem ethereal by contrast. The faint, sweet old 
voice chanted: 

“I will remember the works of the Lord; and call to 
mind the wonders of old time. The voice of Thy thun¬ 
der was heard round about. The lightnings shone upon 
the ground; the earth was moved and shooke withal.” 
He lifted his head, and his sombre eyes passing over 
the others rested on Richard: “Thy way is in the sea 
and thy paths in the great waters, and thy footsteps are 
not known—” He lifted his right hand as though in 
benediction, and turned down the cloister walk. The 
[ 158 ] 


voice drifted back: “Thy way, O God, is holy; who is 
so great—” It faded and was lost in the distance. 

Still the three boys stood entranced, and rooted to the 
ground. Then with a sudden release of their muscles, 
they ran, scrambling over fallen walls, racing across the 
open spaces. With never a look behind, they sped on 
until panting, they stood once more at the river edge 
by their boat, which lay tied to the ancient Priory wharf. 

Never before had they been so swift or so silent as 
they made sail and cast off. The little boat dropped 
away from the wharf, her sail filled, and away the boys 
darted, the water rippling with a pleasant, chuckling 
sound past the bows. 

“Diccon, what was that, dost think, man or ghost?” 
asked Philip in an awed voice. 

“I’m not sure,” was the reply, “it’s long since King 
Harry’s men destroyed the great abbeys, but still he 
might have been a very young monk. Did’st note the 
way he looked at me?” 

“Indeed I did, and forsooth, shivered all over! I was 
glad ’twas not me. I could not have borne it!” 

“Well, I wish we were home!” whimpered Jocelyn, 
“I’m so-oo cold! I know it’s getting late! I wish you 
wouldn’t want to go so far from home, Diccon.” 

Diccon trimmed sail as the breeze freshened, and 
sang under his breath: “Thy way is in the sea, and thy 
path on the great waters.” 

[ 159 1 


July had waned and the great fleet had at last put to 
sea. But it was still short of the necessary provision for 
so great an expedition, there being twenty ships royal, 
and a goodly number of store ships, some twenty-three 
hundred men including the soldiers under General Car¬ 
lisle, and one small stowaway of whom no one was 
aware. He had with much forethought and precaution 
smuggled a supply of both food and water with him 
into his small and extremely precarious lair in the hold 
among the kegs of gunpowder and shot. 

It was a very close, warm place, and he slept a great 
deal. This was fortunate, for a lad like Richard Don- 
ham, accustomed to ranging over the Devonshire 
Downs, would naturally find such cramped quarters 
very hard to stay in. Occasionally he would wriggle out 
into a more open space, where he could stand and stretch 
his weary, cramped muscles. Through a crack around 
one of the hatches, he could see a brilliant line of light 
during the day, so he kept a certain knowledge of the 
days as they passed. But a sack of food packed by a 
boy for his own consumption, and only a flagon of 
water, could hardly be expected to last many days. And 
Diccon was becoming, not only very tired and bored, 
but desperately hungry. 

Five days had passed; it was quite dark when he heard 
the hatch open, saw a glimmer of light from a lantern, 
and heard a voice say: 


[ 160 ] 


“An* I hears the Admiral hisself say ‘Aye, faith, an’ 
we’ll run into Vigo Bay and take our water and pro¬ 
visions from the Spanish Governor.’ Ho, ho! ’e’ll do it 
too, and all his captings exclaiming, ‘Was ’e crazy? 
Would ’e let the Dons know all ’is plans?’ and so on!” 

“ ’E’s got a reason, ’e ’as!” 

“So we ought to make it by the morrow! ’E calls me 
to ’is cabin, and ’e says: ‘Gunner, hast a-plenty o’ car¬ 
tridges?’ ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ sez I. ‘Well, it’s best to be 
ready,’ sez ’e, ’is blue eye a-twinkling. ‘But I’ll be bound 
the sight of us will be all the Governor will need as a 
’int to send us out what provisions we be wanting. Still, 
have your guns primed, Master Gunner,’ sez ’e!” 

“Aye, that’s Frankie for you! ’E’s always ready! ” 

“That’s ten rounds, and another ten ready to hand; 
now, we’ll get the first lot out.” Their voices faded 
away; evidently they were carrying out the casks. But 
still no satisfactory plan of release had come to Richard. 
Back came the gunner, and his assistant: 

“Eh, ’e’s a great ’un. And ’e wants ’is service as good 
in ’is cabin as on ’is decks! ” 

“And why not? Does not Queen Bess herself send 
for him, and make ’im a friend and adviser!” 

“Ha, ha, did ye see the way Perkin crept out last night 
after spillin’ the wine down his neck at supper?” 

“Never saw Perkin, but ’eard the Admiral’s voice, I 
did! A right noble string of oaths! ” 

[ 161 ] 


Once more they climbed the ladder with their bur¬ 
dens, and after them tiptoed a boy whose heart pounded 
mightily, but whose mind was made up. He knew 
where the Admiral’s cabin was, and hadn’t he himself 
served as page many a time when his father had wel¬ 
comed noble guests at the castle? 

He cast a quick glance about him for a temporary 
hiding place. It was not too long to wait, if only no one 
came and found him. Behind that big chest, where the 
pennants and flags were kept was just what he wanted, 
and snugly ensconced there, he waited patiently, listen¬ 
ing intently for all sounds. The sea was fairly calm, the 
great ship sped through the water under full sail. The 
Admiral was in his cabin. 

“Faith, but how hungry I am!” thought Dick. A 
sailor tramped by. The ship’s bell rang: 1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7. 
Here came Perkin carrying a big tray. At last! Dick 
sprang to his feet, followed close behind Perkin, hesi¬ 
tated at the door while he took a quick survey. The 
Admiral sat at the table. Behind him, stood Perkin, 
fumbling with the dishes which he had now set on the 
buffet. The seaman picked up a flagon, with a despair¬ 
ing glance for the man at the table, and started toward 
him. 

A swift, sudden movement brought him up short, 
for a slim, lithe lad in green and brown clothes was at 
his side. Finger to his lips, a hand reached for the 

[ 162 ] 


flagon. Deft, graceful, the boy crossed the room, poured 
the wine into the waiting goblet, and returned to where 
Perkin still stood, dazed and silent. Dick grinned at 
him, looked over the tray, selected the dish to be served 
next, and went about his business. 

Graceful and easy in every movement, at first the 
Admiral deep in thought, did not heed him, and Diccon 
admiringly watched the sturdy, stout little leader. He 
did not look small sitting there, with his wide shoulders, 
a well-set head covered with crisp, brown hair over a 
high, broad forehead; blue eyes that were usually bright 
with merriment, and a russet beard concealing the 
strong, kindly mouth. The loose seaman’s shirt open 
at the neck, showed his bronzed throat. A scarlet sash 
was about his waist, and a scarlet cap laced with gold, 
lay on the table near his plate. A fine figure of a man, 
a worthy hero! 

When the boy once again brought the platter to the 
Admiral’s attention, he looked up curiously: 

“What’s this, what’s this? Where didst thou spring 
from, lad? Bless my soul, art an elf, suddenly created 
to save my temper and my doublet? Come, account for 
thyself, and make haste!” 

“Please you, Sir Francis, I heard thou needst a proper 
servitor, so here I am!” 

“Tut, I can see thou art here. How earnest, here is 
my question?” 


[ 163] 


“ ’Twas not hard, Sir Francis. The men are accus¬ 
tomed to seeing my little boat about the ships, so did 
not question it, and when the chance offered, I slipped 
overside, and hid in amongst the powder chests.” 

“My powder chests! Hm-ph, and what were my 
men doing that some one could get in to my powder? 
’Twill bear looking into; but on with thy tale, lad. 
Been there five days, eh? Wert not hungry? Thirsty? 
’Twould seem thy face is known to me. Who is thy 
father?” 

“Lord Donham, sir, of Donham Castle in Berkshire, 
and of Donham St. Regis, up the Tamar.” 

“God bless my soul! The son of a lord, a stowaway, 
and offering himself as my cupbearer!” And Sir Fran¬ 
cis roared with laughter. “Well, lad, the Queen’s busi¬ 
ness will not brook my returning an errant boy, nor can 
I put thee ashore at our next port-of-call, for that were 
leaving thee to the mercy of the Dons! So my cup¬ 
bearer shalt be, but mind sirrah, I’ll stand no clumsi¬ 
ness ! ” 

“There will be no clumsiness, sir, I’ll warrant thee!” 
promised Richard, cheerily. How good that pudding 
smelled to the hungry boy. 

“Perkin, you are relieved from service in my cabin; 
see that the lad here is fed, and kindly used.” Sir Fran¬ 
cis reached for his cap and with a kindly nod to the 
boy, left the room. 


[ 164] 


The next morning the pinnaces sailed in, and that 
night the captains assembled again in Drake’s cabin to 
celebrate the successful acquiring of the needed provi¬ 
sions. There they were served the delicious wines, sweet¬ 
meats and fruits sent by the Spanish Governor to “El 
Draque,” as though to his dearest friends and guests. 
This time there was no slopping of wines or other dis¬ 
order; and the Admiral, to the great delight of Master 
Moon and Master Barnaby, laughingly recounted the 
tale of his young stowaway who had hid among the 
powder chests. “Though,” he ended seriously, “that is 
a warning. For what one can do, another may do, and 
with evil intent!” 

For long days thereafter they sailed. A leaden sky 
closed down over a raging grey sea. Mountainous waves 
towered high, laced with wild, white streaks of blowing 
foam. The shrieking wind tore through the bare poles. 
But still they drove westward. Part of that time Richard, 
lying curled up in a miserable little heap in a sheltered 
corner, wondered dizzily why he had ever thought he 
wanted to go to sea. Why should anyone want to cross 
this heaving, tossing water simply to see new lands when 
he already had a perfectly satisfactory land, that never 
made anyone feel like dying! 

Then one morning he awoke, his head clear and his 
appetite raging, though his legs were still rather shaky; 
and his enthusiasm returned with his appetite. Once 

[ 165 ] 


more the sun shone, reefs were shaken out of the sails. 
The seas raced dancing and sparkling under them. All 
the world seemed glorious, and to be at sea with Drake, 
the greatest adventure in the world. 

It was not long before Richard could climb, as agile 
as a monkey, anywhere in the rigging. Besides, his gay 
humour and good-natured willingness to help anyone 
with any task won him a speedy liking among all the 
men. One day, perched high aloft on the yardarms, his 
keen eyes searching the blue waters, he saw a little blot 
on the sharp line where sky and sea met, that even as 
he watched grew larger. 

“Sail ho! ” he sang out. 

“Where away?” came back from the deck. 

“Broad on the larboard beam, sir.” 

“Can you make her out?” 

“Aye, aye, sir; a ship, sir, running before the wind. 
I think there are many! ” Minutes passed while the sails 
grew steadily nearer. 

“Sail ho, sir!” cried Dick, “I can see their banners 
now, sir. They are Spaniards right enough!” 

Bugles blew, drums rolled, and a gun boomed out, 
signalling to the rest of the fleet to prepare for action. 
Now the Spaniards, seeing the ships, were shifting their 
course. The Bonaventure followed suit, the white foam 
boiling at her bows as she tore through the water. Rap¬ 
idly they were overhauling the high-pooped ships of 

1 166 ] 


Spain, which were making a vain effort to escape. 

General Carlisle assembled his men on deck. The 
gunners were breaking out powder kegs. Everything 
was humming with busyness. Yet in true sailor fashion, 
no one ever seemed to get in another’s way. 

The bow guns were unlimbered. A puff of white 
smoke, a crashing detonation, and just short of the near¬ 
est Spanish ship, a column of water shot into the air. 
The Elizabeth Bonaventure had issued her ultimatum! 
As they drew nearer, the Spanish ship returned the fire 
with her stern chasers. But they had no effect, for the 
Spaniards were notoriously poor marksmen, and in no 
time they were within range of the English guns. 

Meanwhile Dick had scrambled into the hold where 
he had spent his first few days at sea, and wriggled his 
way back to his hiding place. He retrieved a very 
precious bit of his equipment—the slim, Damascus blade 
called The Luc\ of the House, brought home by the 
boyish ancestor who had also gone adventuring on the 
seas long, long ago—all the way to Palestine with his 
Crusader father. 

Dick had felt it his right to bring it on his great ad¬ 
venture. Even though it was a man’s sword, it had 
always been handed down to the eldest son. He armed 
himself with the Sword and protected his body with a 
light steel vest. Then thrusting a pistol into his sash, 
he returned to the deck. 


[ 167 1 


Before he had time to take in the situation, there came 
an ear-splitting roar, the ship seemed to leap and quiver 
like a cruelly spurred horse. The reek of powder filled 
the air. The Bonaventure with sails close hauled, had 
fired a full broadside. The tall mainmast of the Span¬ 
iard swayed and crashed to the deck in a tangle of rig¬ 
ging, spars and splintered wood. The topgallant sail 
from the mizzenmast hung over the side. This acted 
as a drag anchor and so removed her chance of running 
from the fight. But her guns still barked defiance. A 
splinter of flying wood from the Bonaventure s rail, 
where a spent shot had landed, struck Dick’s forehead, 
sending a trickle of blood into his eyes. 

The Bonaventure now ran in close to the other ship, 
her grappling irons were clamped on the other’s rails, 
and the grim, yelling English crew went swarming over 
the side. 

Once on the Spanish ship Dick merely rubbed the 
blood out of his eyes with his forearm. He gave no fur¬ 
ther thought to his scratch in his wild exultation of the 
fight. Beyond, the thunder of guns from the other ships 
that had come up rolled continuously. Flames were 
already leaping from another of the Spanish ships. The 
fighting became furious; Dick caught in the jam of 
fighting men, was swept along resistlessly. He heard 
big Tom Hatch, Master Gunner, call his name, bidding 
him get back out of the action. 

[ 168 ] 


'Y\V 



The boy faced his captor, but with the Sword in his hand 





















Richard turned his head to answer. His foot slipped 
in the wet slime of blood on the decks, and he went 
down. Yanked to his feet a minute later, he found him¬ 
self in the grasp of a swarthy Spaniard. Writhing and 
twisting, the boy tore himself loose, and faced his cap- 
tor, breathless and panting, but with the Sword in his 
hand. 

The evil, dark face grinned and leered. This whipper- 
snapper, with his slender little blade! The Spaniard 
thrust with his cutlass—there would be one less English 
boy growing up to threaten Spain’s power! To his in¬ 
finite surprise, the thrust was stopped. By a boy’s 
strength, yes, but also by strong, wiry muscles, a wrist 
trained to sword play, backing a blade forged and tem¬ 
pered by the master armourers of old Damascus! The 
Luc\ of the House, with its graven words—Always 
Faithful—on its blade, warranted Donham’s faith in its 
luck. Suddenly the Spaniard’s cutlass was wrenched 
from his hand. His numb, tingling fingers fumbled for 
his pistol. From behind Dick a shot rang out. A look of 
astonishment crossed the Spaniard’s face. For a moment 
his body wavered, then it slumped to the deck. 

Big Tom, his smoking pistol in his hand, grasped 
Diccon by the shoulders: 

“Ye rapscallion! Did ye not hear me call ye back? 
Eh well, betwixt us, you and I ha’ done away wi’ one 
of the worst villyuns unhung, we have! ’Twas the 

[ 171 ] 


pirate, Estaban himself, and why he was on this ship 
is a mystery, it is! Unless he were a-plannin’ to steal it 
and its cargo for himself. He’ll steal no more plate 
ships and rich cargo, ever again! But he’s hurted ye, 
lad?” Big Tom anxiously surveyed the smear of blood 
across Dick’s face from the cut on his forehead. 

“No, no, I’m right enough, Tom. How goes the 
fight?” 

“Well enough, well enough! The Dons ha’ yielded 
to Frankie, like they always does! Scairt of ’e, they is! 
But ye’re all blud, laddie, how came ye by the hurt?” 

Dick’s hand went to his forehead bewilderedly. It 
did hurt. He suddenly felt sick and dizzy. The ship 
swung up and down so wildly—it must be another 
storm. Then everything went very black. 

Big Tom gathered the boy up in his arms, and shoul¬ 
dering his way back to the Bonaventure , laid his limp 
burden on the deck in a sheltered spot, while he brought 
water to bathe his head. In a moment Diccon opened 
his eyes, and struggled up. 

“Thank you, Tom,” he said, “I’ll be all right now. 
That cut must have been worse than I thought.” 

That night the men made merry, feasting on the 
wine, biscuit, dried fruits and sweets that had been part 
of the cargo carried by the Spanish ships. Dick and Big 
Tom were the heroes of the occasion. Tom must tell 
time and again, how he had found the boy disarming 

[ 172 ] 


the pirate; and Dick, the history of the famous Sword 
as it was passed admiringly from hand to hand by his 
rough shipmates. 

On the morrow the necessary repairs were concluded. 
Laden with spoils from the Spanish ships—gold and 
silver in bars, rich silks, spices and rare carpets from the 
far countries of the Orient—the Englishmen sailed on 
their way. 

Those were brave days, brimming over with adven¬ 
ture. Drake’s fleet pounced on Santiago, frightening 
the Spanish inhabitants back into the interior. The sail¬ 
ors spent many happy days in this port, among the pleas¬ 
ant gardens and orchards. Some weeks later they made 
the little island of Dominica, where Richard had his 
first sight of Indians. Savages they were, but a kindly 
disposed people, who wonderingly helped the men carry 
fresh water and fruit to the ships. These were badly 
needed, for there had been much sickness in the last 
weeks, and many of the men had died of scurvy. The 
Admiral was also more than glad of the opportunity 
to give the ships the necessary cleansing of the holds, as 
well as careen them on the beach and scrape their hulls. 

Richard was becoming accustomed to strange sights 
and new lands: coral islands, great palm trees, gorgeous 
tropical flowers, schools of queer fish that came out of 
the water and flew in the air. From the prisoners they 
had taken, he had also learned to speak Spanish very 

[ i73 ] 


readily, as he had discovered this was an accomplish¬ 
ment of his hero, Sir Francis, on whom he constantly 
strove to model himself. 

A month was spent at Santo Domingo, following its 
attack and defeat, and the burning of a great Spanish 
fleet there. Then they set sail across summer seas toward 
the mainland, under a hot and blazing sun. Now there 
came an evening when the Captains, having been called 
in for a conference, sat about the table in Drake’s cabin 
with a map spread out before them. Drake, sitting at 
the head, was showing them his plan of attack on the 
city of Cartagena. 

“Now, gentlemen, I know this harbour, as I know 
Plymouth harbour itself. ’Twill offer no difficulty as 
to entrance. General Carlisle will land to the westward, 
hereabouts,” tapping the map with a square-tipped 
finger. “He will advance along the shore, while we with 
certain of the fleet draw the attention of the Dons by 
feigning an attack on the fort, here. 

“That we have settled—but, hark’ee, here’s the catch! 
They can, with a handful of men and guns, defend this 
causeway, against an army! Yet it is our only means of 
approach, and we have no adequate plan.” He medita¬ 
tively stroked his tawny beard, and slowly shook his 
head. “Eh! but this is a hot night! 

“Here, my lordling,” he called gaily over his shoul¬ 
der to Dick, sitting half asleep on a transom. “Wake, 

[ i74 ] 


thou sleepyhead, and bring us punch to wet our parched 
throats—and,” his blue eyes twinkled merrily at the boy 
moving around the table, “bring thy fresh young wits 
to bear on our problem. Show us how ye would cross 
this causeway safely, while the Dons fire down on ye. 
An it’s a good way, thou’lt share in the spoils of Car¬ 
tagena!” 

“Faith, Sir Francis, I’d not cross the causeway at all! 
I’d lead my men through the water’s edge, here, beside 
the causeway. If the tide is out, wilt be shallow enough; 
then let them fire along the causeway to their heart’s 
content. There’d be never a man in line of their guns!” 

“ ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ ” 
laughed the Admiral. “Indeed, gentlemen, ’tis some¬ 
times as well not to make your stowaways ‘walk the 
plank’ till ye’ve tried the quality of their brains! Sup¬ 
pose we adopt this suggestion?” And led by General 
Carlisle and Captain Moon, they cheered lustily. Then 
they sat Diccon on the table, plying him with wine, 
praise and sweetmeats until sleep finally got the best of 
him. 

So well did Diccon’s plan work that Cartagena fell 
to the determined onslaught of the English. Several 
days later, when the Spanish Governor and the Bishop 
came to visit the Admiral on his ship (for he was ever 
most courteous to his enemies and they found him very 
merry and polite), Sir Francis called his young cup- 

[ i75 ] 


bearer, and presented him as “The true conqueror of 
your city, Senhors. For except for him, we had never 
cleared the causeway!” 

When in May Drake’s ships reached that fair land 
of flowers named Florida by the Spaniards, they sailed 
northwards, sacking and burning the two Spanish settle¬ 
ments of St. Augustine and Don Juan de Pinos. Then 
the fleet continued up the coast, for Sir Francis wished 
to visit that colony of Sir Walter Raleigh’s on the island 
of Roanoke. They sailed through the wide, beautiful, 
land-locked harbour, and anchored at the mouth of the 
river for the night, as a thick white fog blew in from 
the sea, obscuring all sight of land. 

Early the next morning, with the fog thinning before 
the rising sun, they made their way up the river. Like 
apparitions taking form through the silvery mists, those 
three and twenty tall ships appeared to the colonists, 
who crowded to the water’s edge to welcome their res¬ 
cuers. For they were starving. For days they had lived 
on nothing but what little they could find on their 
island, and oysters which they could dig from shallow 
water near by. For the once friendly and simple-hearted 
Indians who had kept them supplied with corn, fresh 
meats, and fish from their own weirs, became vengeful 
enemies, cunning and resourceful, because of cruel and 
outrageous treatment given them by a few of the col¬ 
onists. 


[ 176 ] 


To his great delight Dick went ashore in a pinnace 
with Sir Francis. Finding a boy of about his own age 
among the colonists, Dick soon made friends with him. 
They wandered off together when Jeremy’s hunger had 
been partially satisfied, each delighted at the oppor¬ 
tunity to air his own experiences. 

Dick thrilled Jeremy with the story of his fight with 
the Spanish pirate, showed him the Sword with its keen, 
supple blade, and the jeweled hilt that made Jeremy’s 
eyes open wide in admiration. Jeremy showed Dick his 
Indian bow and arrows, the remains of the Indian fish 
weirs; and most fascinating of all, the herb that the 
Indians called “uppowac.” Jeremy had some, all prop¬ 
erly dried and powdered, also a pipe such as the Indians 
used. Would Richard like to try it? Why, of course he 
would and forthwith did, though at first it made him 
choke and cough until the tears came to his eyes. 

“I cannot truly say I like it!” he panted, between 
coughs. 

“That is only because thou hast not quite caught the 
trick, and at least it hasna’ made thee sick!” said Jeremy, 
admiringly. “It does most people when they begin, thou 
knowst! ” 

The trip home to England was short and uneventful, 
as events go. But Dick was very happy, he would see 
his family once again, and have much to tell them; he 
would receive his share of the Prize moneys; and he had 

[ i77 1 


made many new friends, the greatest and best of these 
being his Captain and hero. And so Sir Francis Drake 
remained. 

But there came a sad, far-off day when having sat 
by him all through a long night as he raved in delirium, 
holding him in gentle, loving arms, Richard stood silent 
on the deck of the Defiance. He was watching the lead- 
sealed coffin slide into the blue waters off Puerto Bello, 
while the drums beat the long tattoo, and the cannon 
thundered their last salute to Drake of Devon. 

It was only then that Richard returned to England 
to take up his duties as Lord Donham of Donham 
Manor. 



[ 178 ] 














CHAPTER VI 

1644 

THE HOUSE IS DIVIDED 


When a Stuart King and a Puritan 
Parliament Clashed 

In which John Donham, son of Captain Lord 
'Richard Donham, leaves old England for a new 
England. Francis, his twin brother, following his 
king to the end, sees his family scattered and his 
house fallen. He fares forth to a far country, carry¬ 
ing the Luck with him. And the last of the Don- 
hams is rescued by an old uncle. 


[ 179 ] 











































, 


















































































































* 






































































































































♦ 









































N one of the top steps of the grand staircase 



that curved downward in a splendid sweep 


to the Great Hall of Donham Manor, John, 
sitting with his head against the carved rail, could hear 
Francis’ clear, high voice. He was singing one of those 
rollicking, ribald new songs for the amusement of his 
father’s guests. There was quick laughter and applause 
after each song. John hated those songs; he thought 
them vile! He hated those people down there—“wast¬ 
ers, profligates, oppressors of the poor, and mockers of 
those who wished to live decent, good lives!” 

He dropped his chin into his hands, and wondered 
moodily why such people should have come between 
himself and his beloved twin, his one-time boon com¬ 
panion, Francis. They had always been so close to- 


[ 181 ] 


gether in all they did or thought, until they went to 
Eton to school where through their friendships they be¬ 
came widely separated. 

Then had come a terrible tragedy that had swept 
away mother, older brother and only sister all at once. 
In his grief and loneliness, their father Lord Richard 
had turned back to his first love, the sea. He had fol¬ 
lowed it from early boyhood, when he had run away to 
sail with Sir Francis Drake to a strange, new land far 
away. 

Nearly a year had passed before Lord Richard re¬ 
turned, and called his two boys home from their school 
to bear him company in the great house. He filled it 
with his friends, men and women who ate, drank, sang, 
danced and gambled until daylight was breaking. Fran¬ 
cis loved it, and John did not. They made much of 
Francis, they liked his good looks and his sweet singing 
voice; but they didn’t want him, John, about. 

When the stars had paled out, the black oblongs that 
were the windows showed grey. The doors closed be¬ 
hind the last guest and John heard his father and Francis 
coming up the wide stairway; while one by one the 
footmen put out the guttering candles below. His heart 
ached jealously, as he watched them. His father’s arm 
was thrown over Francis’ shoulder in a comradely fash¬ 
ion, and they laughed together almost as though Lord 
Richard, not John, was Francis’ twin! 

[ 182 ] 


Resentment welled up through John’s usually sunny 
disposition, and he sprang to his feet in an impulse to 
escape. But already they had seen him, and Lord Rich¬ 
ard drawled: “Well, well, waiting to see us safely to 
bed, ‘Jdtm Goodman’? Best be off yourself, or you 
won’t be able to keep awake through your friend Brew¬ 
ster’s next sermon!” 

Francis laughed, and John bit his lips to keep back 
the hot words that flooded his mind, and what was 
worse, the lonely tears that stung his eyes. He went 
without a word, but with his head high. 

He had met the man Brewster some months ago. 
John’s sympathy and interest had been aroused at once 
in what he had to tell. John loved his home, not as 
Francis loved it; for Francis, with his pride of family 
and position, loved the beautiful manor house built by 
their grandfather, with an almost passionate love. But 
to John, home meant not only the stately, rose-colored, 
Tudor manor house with its mile-long avenue of oaks 
stretching before it, but all the simple folk in the little 
village of Donham Rising, the tenant farmers of the 
great estate; and even the humble animals that served 
them. He spent many hours riding about, taking a 
deep interest in the tenants’ problems, and doing his 
best to help ease their burdens. 

One day while out on such an errand, he had stopped 
at the inn in the village, and there had been a traveller 

[ 183] 


resting in the taproom. Tom, the hostler, whispered as 
he took John’s horse: 

“Master John, sir, yon gendeman—’e’s a rare ’un, ’e 
is! ’E’s a preacher, and ’e does na’ hold wi’ neither 
King nor Church! ’E says its opp-opp-opp-summat we 
are! Mebbe ye’ll know. ’Twas a big word!” Wagging 
his head he went on: “Ye’ll be talkin’ wi’ ’im, I’ll war- 
rent. It takes eddicashun to unnerstand th’ likes o’ him, 
I’m thinkin’.” 

John, full of curiosity, had entered and speedily fallen 
under the spell of the old man’s learned, kindly talk. 

Frequently since then they had met, and a strong 
affection had grown between the fine, old man and the 
enthusiastic boy, whose mind opened eagerly to the high 
ideals and lofty aspirations of the little group of devout, 
God-fearing people whom Brewster represented. 

He told John of how to escape persecution, they had 
fled from the little town of Scrooby, up north, to Hol¬ 
land; of how difficult living had been there, kind though 
the people were; and of how he had returned to Eng¬ 
land to try to gain permission from the London Com¬ 
pany to establish a settlement on the shores of America. 
“Here,” he said earnestly, to the boy, “God hath pro¬ 
vided a refuge for those whom He means to save. And 
seeing the Church in these sad days hath no place left 
to fly into but the wilderness, what better work can there 
be, than to go and raise tabernacles for her.” 

[ 184 ] 


A great many ideas and thoughts had been growing 
and taking form in John’s mind through these talks. 
He realized that on one hand, the people known as the 
Puritans were religious fanatics—hard and cruel. On 
the opposite, he saw how lax and thoughtless were 
many such as those friends of his father and Francis. 
In between, was Brewster’s little group keeping the lamp 
of faith burning with a strong, pure light, seeking only 
for freedom to practice that faith without hindrance. 
So he rose early the next morning, and rode through 
the lovely summer morning in search of his friend. He 
came on the sturdy old man striding along the road. 

“Good morning!” cried Brewster. “You are about 
early. I was going to walk to the old ruined Abbey on 
the river. I like to hear the birds sing their psalms of 
praise where once the good monks sang. Get down 
from your horse and walk with me.” 

Springing down from his horse, John joined him, the 
horse’s reins caught under his arm, the horse ambling 
gently after them. 

“Sir,” he said abruptly, “I am very unhappy. My 
father and brother grow further and further from me, 
so that there is no understanding between us longer. I 
would that I might join your band and journey with 
you, to where I may be free to serve God faithfully, and,” 
he added, honestly, “I long to see that new land beyond 
the ocean!” 


[ 185 ] 


They had turned from the road onto a little path,! 
where the river ran sparkling and singing beside them. 
Ahead the beautiful, broken arches of the great ruin of 
the Abbey of St. Cross rose against the misty sky, above 
the thick masses of the green trees. Master Brewster 
stopped, set his two hands on John’s shoulders, and 
scanned his face, long and earnestly. 

“My boy,” came his reply at last, “what can be a 
better work, more honourable or worthy a Christian, 
than to join forces with such a company of faithful peo¬ 
ple? And if one who though young is known to be 
godly and to live in wealth and prosperity here, shall 
forsake all this to run a hazard with them, then it will 
be an example of great use—to give more life to the 
faith of God’s people and to encourage others to join 
more willingly in it!” 

Into the Hall of Donham Manor late that afternoon 
came Lord Richard Donham, bringing with him a 
breeziness of the rolling sea that he so loved. Still in his 
riding clothes, John stood with his back to the fire. He 
had been trying by the advice of Master Brewster, to 
come to something of the old friendly terms with Fran¬ 
cis. Francis was sprawled indolently in an armchair, 
tossing bits of cake to his two spaniels sitting motionless 
before him, their eager adoring eyes fixed on him ex¬ 
pectantly. 

John noticed that his father’s handsome, ruddy face 
[ 186 ] 


brightened as he saw the twins together, and he dreaded 
the moment when Lord Donham became aware of the 
feeling of hostility in the air. For he knew that though 
lack of understanding, and impatience with what he 
called “John’s nonsense” often led his father into an atti¬ 
tude of intolerance, Lord Richard dearly loved both his 
sons. 

Francis quickly dispelled his father’s happy idea with 
his first words: “Our John here has turned dissenter, 
Father! Faith, he consorts with a dissenting preacher, 
and would have me do likewise!” And he laughed, 
jeeringly. 

Lord Richard sighed. All his life the bond between 
himself and his two brothers, Philip and Jocelyn, had 
been very strong, and he longed to have his own lads 
as happy. Perhaps their mother would have known how 
to deal with them. He did not! He shook his head 
and answered, “Tut, Francis, I do not know what devil 
has come to you two lads! Ye are so alike, ye rub each 
other wrongly constantly; ’tis high time I sent ye both 
back to college. Ye’re idle too much!” 

“Sir,” flared back Francis, “we may look alike, but 
there, thank Heaven, the resemblance ceases! I make 
not friends of snivelling saints! Nor do I hold disloyal, 
traitorous opinions of my King!” 

“Come, John, what’s your answer to this condemna¬ 
tion of your brother? The Donhams are good Chris- 

[ 187] 


tian gentlemen and loyal subjects of our King, and he is 
the head of the Church in England.” 

“Sir,” answered John, respectfully but decidedly, “the 
Church has but one head—God. If the King were as 
loyal to his people as his people are to him, he would not 
try to force them against their conscience. And sir, I 
do not question Francis’ choice of friends, though I love 
him, and feign would see him choose more wisely. Nor 
will I allow him to slander those whose company I find 
elevating! ” 

“John, this is no way for a son of mine to talk. You 
will have no more to do with a man that sows such seed 
in your mind! Hereafter ye take your associates from 
among those whom I choose! ” 

“But, sir, I have no liking for their sort of life. Let 
me go with my friends, or at least permit me to bring 
Master Brewster here—” 

Lord Donham got to his feet, his face flushed with 
anger. “Never! ” he thundered, in the voice he rarely 
used save on the quarterdeck of his ship. “Never! And 
I’ll have no more talk of these people. If you go with 
them in defiance of my wishes, ye may stay with them. 
My house is not open to canting hypocrites! ” 

John’s gentle voice answered firmly: “Father, you are 
wrong. We are not canting hypocrites as you say, but 
Englishmen, with all of English tradition back of us. 
When have not Englishmen refused to be oppressed for 

[ 188 ] 


long? If we are not free to worship God in all simplicity 
here in England, then we will go to a land where we 
may! There is that great new land across the sea. You 
were younger than I when you ran away to sea and 
made a voyage there. And those splendid Captains and 
Admirals that you so admire, were fighting for re¬ 
ligious liberty. Yet my grandfather did not disown you, 
and refuse you his roof!” 

But Lord Richard turned from him impatiently: “I 
did not set myself up as more virtuous than my father 
and brothers, and Sir Francis Drake was ever a devoted 
and loyal servant of Her Majesty! Go, if ye will, but 
keep your tongue from making odious comparisons with 
great men!” 

“Let me not go—for go I must from an England ruled 
by a tyrant—lacking a father’s love and home ties,” said 
John pleadingly, holding out his hand. 

Lord Donham refused it angrily. “Though I ac¬ 
knowledge King James is no such ruler as was our 
Queen, I will brook no traitorous utterances such as 
yours! Go if ye must, but sully not the loyal name of 
Donham longer!” 

“Oh, John Goodman, John Goodman!” laughed 
Francis mockingly from where he lounged in his big 
chair. 

“You have named me John Goodman, brother. Very 
well, it is a name of which to be proud; I pray I may 

[ 189] 


live up to it! While I live I shall bear it, but if ever I 
have sons, they shall not be denied their rightful name! 
And wheresoever my path may lie, I pray thee, always 
remember no matter how you bear me in mind, my love 
is still yours. You may carry the Donham Sword, but I 
shall carry in my heart our motto—Always Faithful—” 
John turned on his heel, and quietly left the room. 

The years that followed were bringing war and havoc 
ever nearer to the Donhams, as to the rest of England. 
Lord Richard Donham and his son, Francis, Philip Don¬ 
ham and his three sons, of Donham-St. Ronans in 
Devonshire, were all ardent Royalists. Francis and one 
of his cousins, Gilbert Donham, were frequently at court 
in attendance on the King. Jocelyn Donham, the third 
and youngest of the three Donham brothers, had never 
married, and lived the life of a happy carefree squire 
on his estate deep in the beautiful Cotswold hills. 

Fie loved his brothers, his nephews, his dogs and his 
horses, and cared not a whit for King or Parliament, so 
long as they left him in peace. But when year after year 
passed, with Parliament never called and the fines and 
taxes growing heavier and heavier on the people so that 
King Charles and his favorites might enjoy their extrava¬ 
gant pleasures, Jocelyn and a great many other country 
gentlemen became more and more ready to resist the 
unjust burden laid on them. 

[ 190 1 


“Faith/’ he would say jovially, “if those two rascally 
nephews of mine at court must have moneys, let them 
come to their uncle Jocelyn and ask for it! But give it 
in unjust taxes for other men’s extravagances, I will 
not!” 

When Francis married Daphne Lovell, the beautiful 
young daughter of Lord Lovell, the wedding took place 
at the Church of St. Margaret in London. There was 
much ceremony and afterward a great reception which 
the King and Queen graced with their presence. The 
King laughingly told Francis that it was well he was 
taking the Lady Daphne back to Donham Manor. 

“We grieve at your departure from our court. Still, 
though the Lady Daphne might make a very charming 
young widow, we would grieve yet more for your sud¬ 
den death. For on my honour, I love you, Francis!” 
he said. 

So they left London, and at Donham Manor the fol¬ 
lowing year their son was born, and christened John 
Anthony Lovell. The christening took place in the beau¬ 
tiful church, which had once been part of the great and 
stately Abbey of Saint Cross, and where rested many 
past and gone Donhams—abbots, knights, crusaders, 
lords and ladies of the Manor. 

Old Lord Richard looked curiously at his son Francis 
when the name of the child was pronounced. Never 
Had there been mention of that other John, since he had 

f 191 ] 


walked out of the house and out of their lives seventeen 
years ago. And this was the first indication that John 
was unforgotten by his twin brother. But the child was 
called Anthony, and nothing further was said about his 
other name. 

Little Anthony was the pride and joy of the house and 
the idol of his grandfather. He told the small boy tales 
of high adventure on the seas, taught him to sail a small 
boat, and must needs have him astride a horse as soon 
as his sturdy little legs would support him. Jocelyn 
Donham came often from Longdayle to make long 
visits at the Manor. He vied with his brother in his 
efforts to spoil the adored little boy, who gave “Unc* 
Josse” a whole-hearted admiration and affection in re¬ 
turn, but remained unspoilt. 

The years slipped happily away, though the Puritan 
party was growing stronger and more dominant. In¬ 
deed many of the aristocracy were siding with them 
against the wild extravagances of the Court, as did 
Jocelyn. Already the threat of civil war menaced the 
country. When it finally came, the Puritans under 
Oliver Cromwell swept through the land, hammering 
down the desperate resistance of the Royalists, burning 
and destroying castles, manors, cathedrals, and even in 
some cases, the tragic remains of the ancient Abbeys. 

On a bright October morning, Francis Donham stood 
on the terrace of Donham Manor. Below on the drive- 


[ 192 ] 


way, his troop—men whose forefathers had followed 
his—waited. Here on the terrace was his family whom 
he must leave, trusting them to other loyal servitors, hop¬ 
ing that here in this secluded spot they would be safe 
from the Parliamentary troops. 

He kissed his white-haired father; bent and lifted his 
son, dark-haired, with dark eyes like his beautiful 
mother, into his arms. 

“Anthony, little son, Father must go to fight for his 
King, and you must be a brave soldier. Soldiers obey 
their officers and Grandfather and Mother are your 
officers—” 

“Thir,” replied the little fellow bravely, “I will keep 
care of vem ’til you return!” 

“And, you will return!” said Lady Daphne, as he 
turned to her. “For I shall be waiting and watching 
for you always, until you do!” 

“I will return, sweetheart! God and all His angels 
guard you safely, ’til I come.” He swept off his plumed 
hat, and stooped to kiss her, his vivid blue eyes unusually 
grave. “See,” he laughed, as he straightened up, “I 
carry with me the Luc\ of the House!” 

He drew the jeweled Sword carried by many a son 
of the house of Donham, since it was given to one by a 
Saracen prince; brought it, gleaming, to a salute. Then 
he ran down the steps, leaped to the saddle of his wait¬ 
ing horse; and at the head of his troop, a gay handsome 

[ i93 1 


Cavalier, rode away to join Prince Rupert’s army at 
Edgehill. 

But Richard shook his white head as he watched them 
depart: “I would that he had taken my advice, and sent 
you to my brother Jocelyn, my dear. I feel you would 
have been safer there. But he was ever headstrong and 
willful, and I am an old man! ” 

Three years later, a cart travelling along the highroad, 
stopped at a crossroads. 

“ ’Ere ’ee be, muster,” said the carter. He leaned 
back and shook the sleeping man slouched between two 
bags of grist for the mill. He had begged a lift from 
the carter some distance back. 

“Eh, what?” he yawned, as he sat erect. “Oh, here, 
are we? Thanks, my good fellow. Here is somewhat 
for your trouble,” giving him a coin. “And this,” hand¬ 
ing him a second, “will perchance keep your tongue 
from wagging! ” 

“Thank’ee zur, thank’ee! Nor don’t ’ee be forgettin’ 
I telled ’ee, there be Roundheads about here! ” And the 
carter touched his forehead and drove on. 

Francis Donham stretched, looked ruefully down at 
his worn, dusty clothing, settled the Sword, which had 
been carefully concealed under his coat—one must guard 
the Luc\ these days!—and set out down the lane that 
would bring him home. 


[ i94 ] 


The sun was sinking as he came to the great, wrought 
iron gates at the entrance to the park. His old, passionate 
love for the beautiful place swept over him—his home! 
One of the gates stood open. That was careless, but 
there would be time to speak to the lodge-keeper later. 
The lodge looked empty anyhow. The occupants were 
perhaps at church—Godolphin was a devout chap. 

Francis followed on up the long drive under the Don- 
ham oaks. Not often had a Donham come home so un¬ 
ceremoniously. He noticed that the park did not look 
well-cared for. But that would be owing to the master 
being away, and a shortage of labor due to the war. He 
had, in the joy of being home once more, forgotten for 
the moment that the King’s cause was lost, the King in 
flight to Scotland; he, himself, a fugitive. And Donham 
Manor? Perhaps later it might be confiscated by the 
Roundheads. 

But Francis pushed the unhappy thought away. His 
wife and son were there waiting for him. That evil 
rumor that the Roundheads had already been here could 
not, must not, be true! And no one had seen him but 
the carter, an honest, stupid oaf. Surely all was well. 

Then he was past the last of the great oaks; the wide, 
beautiful sweep of the great house lay before him. The 
slanting rays of the sun touched it with ruddy light, the 
many-paned windows twinkled—Francis stopped short, 
his breath caught in his throat— 

[ i95 1 


Slowly, slowly, more fearful than he had ever been 
in all his life, Francis mounted the steps of the terrace. 
He had fought joyously, fearlessly, as he had lived joy¬ 
ously and fearlessly. But now he was afraid—not for 
himself—he could never be afraid for himself—but of 
what that terrible desolation might mean! 

Windows were broken. Some hung open. The lock 
of the heavy, oak door was broken, the door scarred in 
many places. He pushed it open and entered. The 
Great Hall felt cold and damp, and smelled of death 
and destruction. Broken and overturned furniture lay 
about; tapestries were ripped from the walls; through 
the arched door leading into the little private chapel, he 
could see ruin! Over all lay an air of desolation. 

He suddenly ran up the stair calling, calling, finding 
room after room all in confusion. He went hurriedly 
from one to another. No one anywhere, nothing at all! 
In his father’s room, four candles, burned almost down, 
stood at the four corners of the big carved bed. So his 
father was dead!—he thought dazedly—had died be¬ 
fore the house died! But Daphne, and their little son? 
Then it was true, that rumor that he had heard. They 
were all gone; he alone was left alive! 

Slowly he went down the stairs again. On the land¬ 
ing, he picked up a dilapidated toy, a favorite with the 
boy. He thrust it into a pocket and crossed the Great 
Hall to the long gallery. Strangely enough, this room 
[ 196 ] 


was the least damaged. The portraits on the wall looked 
out over his head. They were only pictures, he thought, 
they did not know that the Donhams were destroyed. 

He stopped in front of that one of his wife, painted 
by Sir Anthony Van Dyck. He looked at it long, as 
though it might give him some clue as to where the 
original was. Then sadly he turned away. Even that 
was only canvas! He sank into a chair, burying his 
face in his hands. 

The rasp of his sword as it slipped against the floor, 
roused him. He balanced it in his hand, and laughed 
bitterly: “The Luc\ of the House! And the house has 
fallen, fallen with England’s King! There is no place 
for me. I have kept faith. I have given all I had— 
home, father, wife and son. There is no more. Perhaps 
John has sons,” he thought confusedly, “three sons for 
tKe House of Donham! What would Puritan John do 
with a jeweled Sword, and a worn-out Cavalier brother? 
He promised so very long ago that he would always love 
us. Suppose I found means to reach him—” 

Swiftly Francis rose and made his preparations. There 
was little to do. The miniature of his lovely wife copied 
from the Van Dyck portrait, that he would take; he 
was the last of the Donhams, Donham Manor was but 
a shell. The soul of it was dead. Doubtless the beauti¬ 
ful church, the last resting place of his ancestors was 
gone, probably blasted to a heap of stones by the Puri- 

[ i97 J 


tans. The grim old Keep on the hill yonder, built by 
those early Norman ancestors of his, still stood. Un¬ 
occupied though it was, it seemed more alive than the 
Manor, frowning down on the dancing river, and sunlit 
meadows. He fancied if they had not deserted it, it 
might have protected them. But how he had loved this 
gracious, beautiful house! 

He went to the door, hesitated and came back, crossed 
to the mantel. With a quick look around, as though 
there might be someone there to spy on him, he pressed 
a piece of the carving, releasing a spring and opening a 
concealed recess. He stepped inside. Below him a nar¬ 
row flight of steps led downward into darkness, but he 
never gave it a glance. Another spring opened a small 
cupboard in the wall. From this he took a fat, heavy 
little leather bag that chinked as he lifted it. A second 
trial produced a metal-bound box, from which he took 
several pieces of jewelry and a piece of yellowed parch¬ 
ment which he studied for a few minutes. Then he 
thrust them, together with the bag, inside his shirt, and 
closed the panel again. 

At the door of the room, he turned for a last look, 
whipped out his Sword and saluted the portraits: “Gen¬ 
tlemen, the last of the Donhams bids you farewell!” 

His vague, and heart-broken questioning of a fright- 
[ 198 ] 


ened villager brought him only the meagre information 
that his father had died. There had been the burial. 
Then the day after, a regiment of Cromwell’s soldiery 
had arrived and driven off all the cattle, defaced the old 
church, plundered the Manor house. No, Lady Daphne 
had not been killed, nor indeed, harmed. She had 
escaped with the child through the old secret passage 
to the castle. But they had sickened from exposure and 
died, they were buried in the old monks’ burial ground, 
where the Abbey was. That was all the villager knew. 
Every one else had fled two days ago, because they heard 
the soldiers were coming back. The man was dull and 
stupid from fright, and Francis could get nothing fur¬ 
ther from him. 

In misery and despair, he made his way to the coast, 
where he hid away on a ship bound for France. From 
there, he took passage on another bound for America, 
utterly indifferent as to what his destination might be. 
His only desire was to leave England and his lost hap¬ 
piness behind him. 

Captain Taylor of the Parliamentary Army sat at a 
table on which were many maps. The captain was not 
studying the maps, but the defiant figure of a small boy 
standing in front of him. The lad’s velvet coat was torn, 
his lace collar soiled and rumpled, black curls tumbled 

[ i99 ] 


about his small flushed face, and his hands were tied 
behind him. 

“Well, what did you bring this child here for?” the 
captain asked sharply. 

“He is the child of a ‘Malignant,’” answered the 
trooper who had brought him in. 

“Untie his hands! ” snapped the man at the table. 

“He is a child of Belial, and a very imp of Satan,” 
grumbled the trooper making no move to obey the cap¬ 
tain’s order. 

“Nevertheless, he is but a child, and can do no harm. 
Untie him instantly! I am not warring on babes.” 

“The psalmist saith: ‘Oh, daughter of Babylon, who 
art to be destroyed, happy shall he be that taketh and 
dasheth thy little ones against the stones,’ ” quoted the 
trooper, with a falsely pious air covering his triumphant 
smirk at having gotten the better of Captain Taylor. 

The captain who had joined the Parliamentarian cause 
from political reasons and risen to command through 
his military ability, had very little sympathy with the 
constant applying of the Psalms. He glowered angrily, 
but before he could reply the child, who up to now had 
not uttered a word, spoke: 

“You are not a good soldier,” he said in a clear, cool 
little voice. “My father says, ‘First of all, a good soldier 
obeys! ’ ” 

“H-r-m-ph, unusual teaching for a Cavalier to his 
[ 200 ] 


child! ” growled the Captain, his unsatisfied annoyance 
with the trooper still in his mind. But to settle matters 
without further argument, he reached out and with his 
own knife cut the rope binding the boy’s hands, asking 
as he did so: “Where is your father, boy?” 

“My father fell at Naseby. Fighting for our King, as 
do all good Englishmen!” 

“Said I not, he was an insolent brat!” muttered the 
trooper from a corner of his mouth, adding aloud: “So 
may they all perish in their iniquity! ” 

“What was your father’s name?” asked the captain, 
ignoring the remarks. The childish mouth tightened, 
and there was no answer. 

“Where is your mother?” persisted the captain. 

Tears came to the boy’s dark eyes. He brushed them 
away with a grubby hand, gulped hard and answered 
unsteadily: “She—she died.” 

“Poor little lad! Where were you going?” 

“Captain,” interrupted the trooper again, feeling that 
the officer was being much too easy with this haughty 
young Royalist, “the Lord hath delivered into our hands, 
a messenger of the Philistines, carrying aid to our en¬ 
emies—” 

“Hold your tongue ’til you are spoken to!” snapped 
the harrassed captain. “What have you to say to that, 
boy?” 

“I am carrying nothing; I do not know what he 
[ 201 ] 


means! I had lost my way, and only asked him to give 
me some directions, and he grabbed me, and called me 
names—a ‘Phil — 5 that thing he just said, and a ‘Malig¬ 
nant.’ Of course I kicked him! He deserved it, he’s 
a liar and a rebel—” The boy was indignantly pouring 
out his story when someone rapped on the door and 
opened it. 

A rather stoutly built man, with short, curling gray 
hair, a ruddy cheerful face, blue eyes set about with wrin¬ 
kles made by laughter, entered. The blue eyes were 
clouded with sorrow now, and he walked heavily, as 
though some joy had gone out of his life. “Captain 
Taylor—” he began, paying no attention to the other 
occupants of the room, when he was interrupted by a 
cry from the boy. 

“Unc’ Josse, oh, Unc’ Josse!” 

Jocelyn Donham gave a quick amazed look, and held 
out his arms, just as the boy flung himself into them. 

“Why, little Tony! My little lad!” he crooned, as he 
held him close. “But we all thought you dead, along 
with your dear mother! They told us so. No one could 
tell us anything definite about what had happened. 
Taylor,” he said, turning to the surprised Captain, “This 
is my great-nephew, whom I was grieving for as dead. 
There are none of his own people left. I will accept all 
responsibility for him if you will allow me to take him 
home with me.” 


[ 202 ] 


“By all means, my dear Donham. I am only too glad 
now that he was brought in to me by an over-zealous 
trooper, who had some wild idea that the boy was carry¬ 
ing information to the enemy. Take him along. We 
will go over that business matter at some other time.” 

As they reached the door, Tony looked back at the 
captain, then gravely offered him his hand. 

“Thank you, sir, for being so decent to me, perhaps 
I was wrong about all good Englishmen fighting for 
the King!” 

So Anthony rode down to Longdayle with his great- 
uncle. He was fatherless and motherless, and Donham 
Manor was lost to him. Yet there was still his beloved 
“Unc’ Josse.” And some day, he thought, in some mys¬ 
terious manner, he would find the famous Sword—the 
Luc\ of the House . Through its uncanny power the 
Donham luck would return, and he would win Donham 
Manor back. And little Tony was fairly well content. 

He had no means of knowing that though the day 
was to come when a king would reign once more over 
England, and Donham Manor be given back to Don- 
hams again, the Luc\ had gone far away across the sea. 



[ 203 ] 





CHAPTER VII 

176 1 

THE LUCK LEADS THE WAY 


When America Was an English Colony 

In which Beau Denham, Carolinian descendant of 
Lord Francis Donham, carries the Luck to win succor 
in an Indian raid. 


1205 ] 
































T HE ship in which Lord Francis Donham had 
sailed from England with the vague idea of 
finding his brother John, landed him in a Car¬ 
olina colony instead of the Massachusetts Bay colony. 
Indifferently he remained, until at last, fired with the 
zeal and enthusiasm of his neighbors, he conceived the 
idea of founding a new house in a new land. Dear mem¬ 
ories helped in the planning of a house that, while not 
as large, followed line for line his beloved lost home in 
England. A slip of a pen in signing a paper, altered the 
sound of his name somewhat and he was content that 
it should be so. 

His grim preoccupation, his mysterious fund of 
[ 207 ] 


wealth, earned him a strange reputation. Nevertheless 
the old man brought to his house a young bride, and be¬ 
fore he died, exacted a promise from his son that the 
house should be finished according to his plans. Here 
for a hundred years, the family grew and prospered. 

On an October day when the summer’s heat was past 
and the Carolina plantation owners, free from fear of 
the swamp fever, were returning to their plantations, 
Mr. Francis Denham’s twelve black oarsmen tossed their 
long oars in the air. Their barge slid gently up to the 
wharf. It was located at the foot of the smooth green 
lawn that swept up to the terraced gardens leading to 
the wide brick mansion. Behind it towered the stately 
live oaks, draped with silver-grey Spanish moss. Far 
across a deep meadow where three or four horses lazily 
switched their tails, lay the stables and the cabins of the 
slaves. On the other side brooded the dark mystery of 
the forest. 

Francis Beaufain Denham, generally known as “Beau” 
to distinguish him from his father, leaped over the side 
and stood eagerly waiting for the rest of the party to dis¬ 
embark. Mr. Denham, very handsome and dignified in 
a plum-colored velvet coat laced with silver, stepped onto 
the wharf from under the awning at the stern of the 
barge. First he handed out his wife. Then with equal 
ceremony he assisted Sally Waring, Anne Colleton and 
Margaret Russell, who were followed by three boys, Mr. 

[ 208 ] 


Granville, the Denham boys’ tutor, and little Rutledge 
Denham. 

“Oh, Sally,” cried Margaret Russell, “aren’t you glad 
that Beau had a birthday, and brought us out here to 
celebrate? Is it not beautiful! Beau, how can you bear 
to go to town and leave it?” 

“That is only because you always live with the fresh, 
salt tang of the sea in your pretty little nose, Margaret,” 
laughed Beau. “Sally and I are mighty glad to get away 
from the heat, the humidity and the chance of fever in 
the spring and come to the sea. Though I love River Lea 
Plantation, and am always just as glad to get back! ” 

As Mrs. Denham led the laughing, chattering group 
of boys and girls on toward the house, Mr. Denham 
paused for a word with Duclos, the plantation overseer, 
who had been on the wharf to greet them as they landed. 
Beau had noticed the worried expression on the man’s 
face and glanced back, wondering momentarily what 
it was all about. But Rhett Blake’s arm was about his 
shoulder, Stuart Colleton was speaking to him, so he 
went on, talking gaily to his guests. But Duclos still 
looked worried, and interrupted his employer’s conver¬ 
sation: 

“Mr. Denham, sir, I wish you had remained safely 
in town. There is trouble brewing amongst the Indians 
again, sir.” 

“Why, nonsense, Duclos. Governor Lyttleton has put 
[ 209 ] 


a stop to all that. The Cherokee chiefs are confined at 
Fort George. Everything is quite quiet again.” 

“Yes, but msieu” answered Duclos, gesticulating ex¬ 
citedly, his French ancestry dominating as it often did in 
moments of excitement, “there ’ave been the despatch 
riders. I myself, saw one of these riding to the city in 
all haste. He said that the Indians were gathering for 
the attack; they are wild with rage! It would appear 
that in some way the commandant at the fort was de¬ 
coyed without and killed, and in retaliation the hostages 
at the fort were shot! Mon dieu, sir,” he wailed, “he 
said that the Cherokees ’ave already attacked one settle¬ 
ment, and almost completely wiped it out! ” 

“Come, come, Duclos. This is doubtless an exaggera¬ 
tion. At any event they are a long way from here. If 
they should be on the warpath, they will never pene¬ 
trate as far as this! Why, man, I would certainly not 
have brought Mrs. Denham and these children here, if 
there had been any fear of that.” 

“M’sieu, one came from the city. That one carried 
news to the fort that Lieutenant-Governor Bull had 
secured Regulars from North Carolina, to take action 
against the Indians! ” 

“That explains it then, Duclos,” answered Mr. Den¬ 
ham with a sigh of relief, “I saw Mr. Bull less than a 
week ago, he told me then that the troops were coming 
by transport. It is a wise precaution, no more. We want 

[ 210 ] 


no such trouble again as that with the Yemassees to the 
south twenty years ago. But after all, the Cherokees are 
friends and allies. The confinement of the chiefs at the 
fort is only a temporary gesture to satisfy a few hotheads. 
I doubt if there can be any truth in the tale the despatch 
rider gave you. He was probably laughing up his sleeve 
at the ease with which he fooled you! Come over in 
the morning, Duclos, and give me a report on the affairs 
of the plantation.” With a pleasant nod he dismissed 
Duclos, and hurried after the others. 

An elaborate supper was laid on a long table set on 
one of the terrace gardens. The flower beds all about 
the stone coping were filled with lavendar flowers im¬ 
ported from England. Their rare, fleeting scent seemed 
like the ghost of the rich, heavy perfume of the jessa¬ 
mine, the magnolias and the oleanders of last spring. 
The sky blazed with massed sworls and streamers of 
crimson and gold from the westering sun—a royal can¬ 
opy over a beautiful scene. 

Beau looked up at his father, as he approached. 
“What did Duclos want, Father? He looked worried. 
Is anything wrong with the colt? And did you ask 
where Jeanne was?” 

“No, nothing is wrong with the colt, Beau. As for 
Jeanne, I did not ask. Perhaps she is shy of your guests.” 

“ ’Tis a pity that our being here should cost Beau the 
pleasure of having his friend at supper with him,” teased 

[ 2ii ] 


Sally Waring, her eyes alight with mischief. Waring 
Hall, Sally’s home was River Lea’s nearest neighbor, and 
Beau and Sally had played and quarrelled together from 
babyhood. 

Before Beau could voice his answer, Rhett Blake, on 
Sally’s other side, tactfully changed the subject to ask 
if they might not go to the stables to see the new colt. 
For the breeding of fine horses was a matter of great 
pride among the plantation owners of the Carolinas and 
Virginia, and the new colt was sired by Mr. Night¬ 
engale’s imported horse Shadow, which had won the 
four-mile heat at the New Market race course the season 
before. In an instant the group was deep in a discussion 
of horses. 

But the visit to the stables was postponed, for from the 
kitchen quarters appeared a procession, headed by a 
serious-faced little French girl. She was carrying with 
great care an enormous cake, gleaming with frosting 
and surrounded by lighted candles. Behind her trooped 
the Negro house servants, led by Cleo the cook, her fat 
and jolly face beaming under her bright-colored turban. 

“Happy birfday, Marse Beau, happy birfday! ” they 
chorused their greetings. Jeanne Duclos carried the great 
cake to the table, and gravely set it in front of Beau, her 
face flushed with embarrassment and pride. 

“Happy birthday, M’sieu Beau,” she said shyly, “I 
have made for you the birthday cake with my own 

[ 212 ] 


hands, by direction of kind Madame Cleo, and I hope 
your years may be as bright as the candles!” Even as 
she spoke, a playful breeze swooped down. For an in¬ 
stant the candles flared up into tall, thin points of flame, 
then they flattened under the gust, and flickered out. 

“Oh, oh!” gasped the little girl, her hands flying to 
her mouth. “The omen. It is terrible! ” 

The laughing Negro faces changed, the whites of their 
eyes rolling in horror, even as the group at the table 
hushed their chatter. But the moment’s tension was 
quickly broken by Mrs. Denham’s pleasant voice: 

“Bring a fresh taper, Thomas; the breeze has spoiled 
our pretty cake.” And Beau hastened to thank Jeanne 
for her wish for him, and for her efforts in making the 
cake for him. It was cut and proved as delicious as it 
was imposing. All joined forces in persuading her to 
come in and dance with them in the house after supper 
was ended. But her eyes were fearful every time she 
glanced toward Beau. 

Mr. Denham, who meanwhile had risen and gone up 
to the house, now returned, carrying in his hands a 
carefully wrapped package. 

“Beau,” he said, standing by the boy at the head of 
the table, “This is your thirteenth birthday. You have 
entered your ’teens, and are no longer a little boy, so I 
am giving to you the Sword that was your great-great¬ 
grandfather’s. It is a rarely beautiful thing—whence it 
[ 213 ] 


came we have no knowledge, but undoubtedly it is of 
very ancient origin. It has always been called the Luc\ 
of the House . It is not a toy for you to play with, but an 
honorable thing with which to defend the meaning of 
our family motto, Always Faithful: to bar the gates of 
our house against all that is dishonest and untrue.” 

As Beau laid back the wrappings, the other boys 
looked at him with a new respect, and a little envy of 
the gift that seemed to them to speak of the dignity of 
approaching manhood. The jewels in the hilt caught 
the glory of the evening sky, and flamed blue and green 
and crimson; and the girls cried out at the beauty of it. 

Beau fastened it on and touched it with some rever¬ 
ence in the look on his face; and in his heart a resolve 
that was not unlike the old vow of knighthood—to fear 
God, honor the King, and defend his lady, though in 
view of many things he had heard recently from his 
father and his father’s friends, there was a little reserva¬ 
tion in regard to King George III. 

Mrs. Denham rose: “Come, children,” she said, “our 
musicians are waiting. The mists are rising over the 
river; I think we had better go inside the house before 
there is any danger of getting the fever.” 

A nightingale sang in the thicket beyond the house. 
When an owl gave a long quavering hoot, the night¬ 
ingale hushed its burst of music abruptly. 

“They are shy little birds, and so sweet in the night,” 
[ 214 ] 


said Sally, pausing at the door, “I wish the owl hadn’t 
come and frightened him away! Oh, Beau, do you feel 
very grown up? Just think, in a few years more, we will 
all be going to real balls. I shall have a ball gown of 
taffetas from London, and my hair shall be powdered. 
You shall be my first gallant, and wear your beautiful 
new dress sword!” 

“That is one advantage I will have over Rhett Blake,” 
laughed Beau, “if I wear it now, will you give me the 
honor of the first minuet, Sally?” 

Sally caught the skirts of her gaily-flowered muslin 
gown, and swept him a laughing curtsy, “Indeed, I am 
honored, for is it not your birthday?” 

The owl hooted again. Its weird quavering note was 
echoed a little further off, as the heavy oak door closed 
behind Sally and Beau. 

The servants hurriedly cleared away the supper things 
in the gathering dusk. “I doan’ lak dat bird. He done 
got a mean way ob singin’! ” said one. 

“Doan’ soun’ lak singin’ to me! Unh, unh, soun’s 
mo’ lak he brewin’ sumpin eebil!” assented the other. 
They carried in the last trayful and shut the kitchen 
door closing in the household of River Lea, from the 
brewing evil which crept ever nearer on noiseless feet. 

In the ball room opened especially for the occasion, 
the mellow light of many candles shone on the gay little 
group of boys and girls, advancing, retreating, bowing 
[ 215 ] 


in the stately measured tread of the minuet. Again they 
would romp gleefully through a Virginia reel to the 
music of the Negro fiddlers led by old Cato, his fiddle 
tucked under his chin, his grizzled head nodding, his 
foot beating out the time. Mr. and Mrs. Denham looked 
on, serenely talking and planning; while from the door¬ 
ways, dusky faces peeped surreptitiously, white teeth 
gleaming delightedly. 

Then suddenly the peaceful gaiety of the scene was 
shattered, the air torn with hideous sound—the war cry 
of the Cherokees; and mingled with it, screams of terror, 
shrieks of agony. The music ceased abruptly, the chil¬ 
dren stopped dancing, silent, stricken dumb and motion¬ 
less. The Negroes in the doorway added their frightened 
moans to the clamor. 

It seemed to Beau as though hours sped by while they 
all stood frozen with horror; though actually Mr. Den¬ 
ham was on his feet instantly, his voice calm and cool. 
He quieted the Negroes, and set them to work barring 
the windows, whose heavy outside shutters had for¬ 
tunately been closed earlier to keep out the swamp mists. 
The doors were further barricaded. He sent Beau and 
some of the boys to the gunroom to collect guns and 
ammunition and take them to the upper rooms. Others 
of the Negroes he sent to carry buckets of water to the 
same rooms, as from there the defense could be better 
carried on. 


[216] 


Without exception the boys went eagerly to work. 
Even little Rutledge helped valiantly in lugging powder 
and shot, while under Mrs. Denham’s direction, the girls 
did their share in the preparations. 

Mr. Granville, the young English tutor, who had been 
unpacking in his room, came running down. “What is 
it, sir?” he questioned. “Everything seems to be afire 
outside. And that ghastly row! Surely, it is not the 
Negro’s barbaric idea of celebration, is it?” 

“No,” said his employer, grimly, “you are going to 
get a little insight into what it means to live in a country 
whose former masters resent our intrusion. Can you 
handle a musket? All right. Get upstairs and take 
charge of the front of the house. Keep down below the 
windows as much as possible and do not blaze away at 
shadows too recklessly. What ammunition we have 
must be made to count, and to last as long as possible. 
Tell Beau that I wish to see him immediately in the 
picture gallery. I will come up myself as soon as I have 
talked with him.” He turned to his wife: 

“I wish I knew what had happened to poor Duclos 
and his family! to say nothing of our field hands! But 
if only Duclos were here—” he broke off with a trou¬ 
bled frown. 

Mrs. Denham threw a glance over her shoulder at 
Jeanne. “Indeed, I too, wish he were. That poor child 
with her white face and the tears streaming down it as 

[ 217 ] 


she works, tears at my heart! And she keeps saying 
over and over, ‘The candles, oh, the candles! ’ ” 

Mr. Denham bit his lip, and turned away his head, 
“My dear, we must not let one affect us, for the good 
of the whole! I am going now to talk with Beau in the 
gallery. When I go upstairs, you and the girls are to 
stay in the great hall unless I send for you; you will be 
safest there.” 

The upper rooms where the valiant little group of 
boyish defenders and their Negro helpers guarded every 
approach to the house, were lit with the reflection of the 
blazing cabins and stables that had been fired by the 
savages. Their leaping, dancing forms were visible in 
the ruddy glare, silhouetted against the billowing clouds 
of smoke, on which their shadows danced with them, 
grotesque and misshapen. Though as yet there was no 
concerted attack, now and again a shot rang out from 
a window, as some warrior ventured near enough to 
try the effect of a fire arrow and came within range of 
the muskets. 

Across one room, Granville stumbled in the dark to 
where Beau crouched by a window, reloading his gun. 

“Your father wants you, downstairs in the gallery, 
Beau,” he said, “he did not say what was wanted, but 
I think you had better hurry.” 

In the gallery, Beau found his father waiting for him 
by the carved mantel of the fireplace, over which smiled 
[ 218 ] 


down the painted likeness of the first Francis Denham. 
Across Mr. Denham’s arm hung a dark cloak. His face 
was very grave. 

“I am going to send you on a very dangerous errand, 
Beau,” he said. “God knows I would rather go myself. 
But without Duclos here, there is no one I can leave in 
charge. Therefore I must stay, and let you go to town 
for help! Under this portrait is hidden a secret which 
the first Francis may have planned for just such an 
emergency as this, and which may yet save us all if you 
can carry out your part. The secret has been handed 
down from him by father to son. Watch closely!” He 
turned to the mantel, pressed firmly on one of the roses 
carved into the woodwork, and slowly and silently a 
panel slid back, disclosing a narrow dark opening. 

“This leads to an underground passage that has its 
opening in a little cove, far down the river. Go care¬ 
fully down the stair. At the bottom, place your right 
hand on the wall and follow on. Do not take your 
hand from the wall; that is your guide. There are 
other openings to the left. One leads to a small room, 
where we shall take refuge if the worst comes to the 
worst. At the end of the passage, you will find a small 
canoe with a paddle. Slide out the canoe and head down 
the river for Charleston. When you arrive, find either 
Moultrie, Francis Marion, or Thomas Middleton. Tell 
them to bring the Charleston Riflemen, and come with 
[ 219 ] 


all speed by the Broad Path! I need not warn you that 
there is desperate need for haste! Now, off with that 
white satin coat, and put on this cloak instead.” 

He laid the dark cloak about Beau’s shoulders, and 
for a long instant looked into the boy’s steady blue eyes, 
then bent and kissed him. 

“God bless and guard you, my beloved son, and guide 
you safely through! I will hold the candle here until 
you are down the steps.” 

The steps were narrow and steep. By the time Beau 
reached the bottom, the last faint glimmer of the candle 
light was lost. As he felt level ground under his feet, 
he called back: “All right, Father. Good-bye!” 

His voice echoed strangely, beating back from narrow 
walls and low roof. He heard the click of the closing 
panel. A momentary panic swept over him in the dark¬ 
ness, but as he half-turned to retrace his steps some¬ 
thing hit against his leg. Th z Luc\ of the House! And 
the memory of his father’s voice rang in his ears, . 
to defend the meaning of our family motto—Always 
Faithful! ” Courage came back to him, warm and strong, 
he had a duty that must be performed; and he reached 
out his right hand, feeling for the wall. 

For a seemingly endless time, he moved forward into 
the utter blackness, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but 
the damp, clammy brick wall under his hand. The 
ground was rough and uneven beneath his feet, and 

[ 220 ] 


though he went as fast as he dared, he had to walk care¬ 
fully. From the feel of the wall the passage constantly 
turned and twisted. 

Beau thought he might be walking around and 
around a vast circle, for all that he could tell. The dark¬ 
ness was so thick that it seemed to press down on him, 
almost as though he could feel it. The air was heavy 
and smelled damp and earthy. Once he stumbled and 
fell, and the clanging of the Sword and the gun that 
he carried echoed over and over. He got to his feet with 
a horrible fear that in some way he had turned around 
and was facing the wrong way. But he reached out to 
the right, felt the wall, and went on. 

After a while he began to wonder how long he had 
been walking. Perhaps when he came to the end, it would 
after all be in Charleston itself. He might come out in 
St. Philip’s Church and scare the verger; or in the cellars 
of Mr. Stuart’s new house on Tradd Street. Mr. Marion 
was often there. It would save the boy a lot of time. 
He tried to keep his mind on the possibilities. Otherwise 
it would wander back to what might be happening at 
River Lea. At last he was conscious of a different feeling 
in the air. The close heaviness was gone, the darkness 
ceased to press down on him, and he could hear the soft 
sliding ripple of water. Then he bumped into a wooden 
barrier. He felt it over carefully, and touched the bolts 
and hinges of a door. 


[ 221 ] 


It was the work of only a minute to open it. Evidently 
the hinges were well oiled, for it swung easily and noise¬ 
lessly. Beau took a deep breath of fresh air, set down 
his gun close to the door, and turned to search for the 
canoe. The passage was quite wide here by the entrance, 
and the canoe rested on two logs against the opposite 
wall. It was light and easy to lift; Beau carried it out. 

The little cove was well protected by a thick screen of 
bushes, the river water rustled through the sedge grass 
at his feet, and he slid the canoe halfway in. Then he 
went back for his gun and pulled the door shut. He 
observed that it was well hidden by vines and bushes. 
Then he returned to the canoe, laid his gun with his 
powder horn and the Sword in the bottom, stepped in 
and gently pushed out into deep water with the aid of 
his paddle. 

The passage had taken him a long way. Even in the 
daylight the house would not have been visible from 
the entrance of the passage. Only a dim red glow in¬ 
dicated where it now lay. The night was clear but dark, 
with tiny pinpoints of starlight high in the heavens. Its 
peace was broken only by the far-off howling of the 
savage enemy. Beau shuddered, and driving his paddle 
deep into the water sent the canoe skimming out onto 
its shimmering surface. 

There was no knowing when or where an attack 
might come with the Cherokees on the warpath. For 

[ 222 ] 



Then he gently pushed out into deep water 




















\ 


I 


• I 






. 


I 














* 







all he knew the woods might be full of them. Even in 
the dark the chance of discovery was great, for behind 
him the passage of the canoe was marked by a trail of 
phosphorescence, and every stroke of his paddle sent tiny 
balls of light whirling through the black water. The 
occasional drip from his paddle blade as it was lifted 
from the stream, might be heard by ears trained to the 
sounds of forest and river. 

However luck was with him in more than name. For 
it happened that none of the Indians had penetrated 
beyond River Lea. Mile after mile slipped away under 
the swift-moving canoe, and there was no further sound 
than the silken whispering of the long needles of the 
pine trees, the stir of some wild thing in the bushes at 
the edge of the river, an occasional twittering of a sleepy 
bird, and the little rushing sound made by the passing of 
the canoe. 

Time dragged on; Beau’s arms grew stiff and weary, 
but his will was firm, and the blade of his paddle still 
drove clean and hard into the oily black water, sending 
the little craft shooting onward. The river was no longer 
a winding stream, but a broad sheet of water. He could 
feel the current running strongly to the sea, and was 
deeply thankful that it should be going out instead of 
coming in against him. 

His eyes were aching with the effort to see ahead into 
the darkness, when low on the horizon appeared a new 

[ 225 ] 


light, not a star of the heavens, but veritably a star of 
hope to the weary lad—the lantern in St. Philip’s 
Church! This lantern was hung there to guide mari¬ 
ners to port, and never was its friendly beam more wel¬ 
come to any mariner. 

A constable on duty was tramping along the sea wall 
on his lonely night watch. Thinking he heard a voice 
calling from below the wall, he held his lantern out 
over the water to see who could be out there in the dark 
at this hour of the morning. His jaw dropped in amaze¬ 
ment when the flickering light illumined a little canoe, 
and a white-faced boy occupying it. 

“Please give me a hand,” gasped Beau, “I am so stiff, 
I can hardly move—” 

The watchman pulled him up on the wall, helped 
rub the cramp out of his aching muscles. When Beau 
had told his story, he blew his whistle for another con¬ 
stable, who came running. 

“Mate,” said the first, “take over my watch with 
yours; there’s no time to be lost! This lad’s all the way 
from the plantations, alone! The Cherokees are out; 
he’s come for help from Cap’n Middleton and the Rifle¬ 
men. I’ll go with him to rouse them!” 

In the early dawn, with the air fresh and sweet and 
the shadows long on the grass, the British Regulars were 
already on the march to the relief of the Indian-infested 
country. They drew to the side of the highway to let pass 
[ 226 ] 


the Charleston Riflemen. Mounted on the fleet Caro¬ 
lina-bred horses of which they were justly proud, they 
galloped down the Broad Path, as the highway was then 
known, on their way to the rescue of River Lea. Beau 
rode with them. 

There was a fierce, short fight, of which Beau kept 
only a blurred memory of the crash and rattle of musket 
fire, the shouts of the Riflemen, the yelling savages. 
Shutters were flung wide in the upper windows of 
River Lea House as the defenders, their spirits re¬ 
newed, cheered the coming of their rescuers, and ex¬ 
pended the last of the hoarded ammunition in a crossfire 
attack. 

And when at last the Indians had been driven off, 
and the doors of the house opened again to welcome 
these good friends who had come so swiftly to their aid, 
Beau stumbled, exhausted and half-dead with sleep into 
his mother’s arms. Dimly he could hear Captain Mid¬ 
dleton say to his father, who was white-faced and drawn 
from the terrible strain of the long hours of horror: 

“You can well be proud of the lad, Denham. He will 
make a good soldier, and I’ll warrant we will be needing 
them. Not against Indians only, before he’s a man 
grown; but for these damned Writs of Assistance. 
They’ll be the means of provoking a war between our 
King and His Majesty’s colonies. Mark my words!” 

Beau wearily opened his eyes, and smiled at his father: 

[ 227 ] 


“Then sir,” he said, “the Luc\ will be drawn for 
God, my country and the ladies, God bless them! ” And 
he laid his back against his mother’s shoulder, and drew 
her arm around his neck. 



[ 228 ] 







CHAPTER VIII 

1779 

THE FORT IS OURS! 


When the Colonies Revolted Against 
Unjust Laws and an Alien King 

In which is told a very little of how John Don ham 
called Goodman, fared in New England. How a 
descendant of his bore in his heart the motto written 
on the Luck. And how a New England Dunham, a 
Carolinian Denham, and an English Donham, 
though unknown to each other, see a new nation 
born in iyyg. 


1229 ] 








T HE first dim light of morning showed in the 
eastern sky, touching pale the waters of Narra- 
gansett Bay. A rooster sent out his shrill salutation 
to the dawn. There was no stately manor here, just a 
white farmhouse of the type of most New England farm¬ 
houses. It was as simple and plain as were that little 
band of Pilgrims with whom a youth called John Good¬ 
man had come to make a home in the Massachusetts 
Bay Colony. As the years had passed on, he had once 
more taken the name of his fathers. And as the settle¬ 
ments grew, children of his had moved on to settle here 
in Rhode Island. 

In the attic of the Dunham farm, Daniel Dunham 
[ 231 ] 


turned over on his cot, thrust a tousled head from under 
the bed coverings, blinked his eyes, and then drew his 
head back, very much as a turtle retreats into its shell. 
But the rooster crowed again, and his challenge was sent 
back by another and yet another from neighboring 
farms. Daniel, with a disgusted grunt, sat up rubbing 
his sleepy eyes. He shivered in the chilly air and pulled 
the gay patchwork quilt up over his shoulders. 

But that would not do! He had to get up and feed 
the cows. He had to start the fire on the kitchen hearth 
so that there would be breakfast when the chores were 
done. Besides, he had come to a great decision last night 
before he went to sleep, and that must be discussed with 
father and mother. He resolutely pushed back the bed 
coverings, and jumped out onto the icy floor. 

Two younger boys still slept peacefully in the big dou¬ 
ble bed. Daniel looked at them speculatively as he 
scrambled into his rough homespun breeches and jacket, 
and he decided against waking them. They would have 
to do their own waking soon enough if he carried out his 
intentions, he thought. He crossed the room, and bent 
to lift the trap door that shut in the narrow stairway. 
The bed creaked as David rolled over, and snuggled 
down again with a contented little snore, while the heavy 
warm quilt slipped slowly to the floor. Jesse on the 
other side of the bed made a little whimpering protest, 
and pulled the sheet up under his round rosy chin. 

[ 232 ] 


Daniel tiptoed softly back and gently pulled the quilt 
back into place. 

“You’d better make the best of it while you can!” he 
nodded to the’ two humped figures in the bed, as he 
slowly lowered the trap door over his head. He hurried 
quietly down the stair, stopped in the big kitchen, where 
he built up the fire, and swung the crane holding a great 
pot of porridge, over it. Then he let himself out of the 
kitchen door. 

For the space of two or three minutes he stood there, 
forgetful of his work and revelling in the beauty of the 
morning—the gold and bronze of the autumn trees, 
slashed by the brilliant crimson of maple leaves; the far 
blue hills; the serene, unruffled water of the bay reflect¬ 
ing the brightening sky. The air smelled clean and fresh, 
spicy with the perfume of ripe apples. Daniel suddenly 
had a great longing to be going out adventuring, care¬ 
free and happy, over the water, beyond the hills. He 
was thinking of his ancestors, in the stories his father 
sometimes told on winter evenings sitting before the fire. 

Well, he was going adventuring! It would be grim 
and hard, though, for General Washington needed more 
troops. Daniel was tall and strong for his age, many 
boys of fourteen or fifteen had gone, and his father was 
too lame to serve with the army. But the thought of his 
father, the sounds of an awakening household, and the 
lowing of the cattle brought him back to the immediate 

[ 233 ] 


duties to be performed before breakfast could be eaten. 

When he returned to the house, he stopped outside 
the door to wash. A shiny tin basin stood on a shelf 
beside the big rainwater barrel. His father was already 
there, rubbing the water from his ruddy face and curl¬ 
ing beard with a rough towel. He was a large powerful 
man for all his lameness, with a genial and humorous 
twinkle in his blue eyes that endeared him to everyone. 

“Good morning, son,” he said cheerily. “Finished my 
chores ahead of you today! The water is cold, but it 
will make you all the more ready for breakfast, and I 
think I smell sausage and hoecake!” 

Dan splashed the cold water over his face and head, 
scrubbed his hands, slicked his thick fair hair down and 
went in, his cheeks rosy and his blue eyes shining. 

By now the bright sun shone through the many-paned 
windows of the low ceilinged kitchen. The floor was 
freshly scrubbed and sanded. It was a pleasant cheerful 
room, and the whole family gathered around the table 
while Deacon Dunham said a simple blessing. He fol¬ 
lowed it by a prayer for the safety and welfare of Gen¬ 
eral Washington and the cause of liberty. 

Daniel ate in silence for a time, busy with his thoughts. 
At last he looked up to find his father watching him 
with sympathetic eyes. 

“Well, son, what is on your mind?” he asked. “You 
must have thought it all out by now.” 

[ 234 1 


“How did you know I was thinking something out, 
Father?” asked Daniel, in surprise. 

“And were you not?” Very gravely came the question. 

“Yes, sir, it’s this. I must be off to enlist in the army. 
They need men, you cannot go. I am a good marks¬ 
man, I am as big as most men, and I ought to go. It 
isn’t as if you didn’t have David and Jesse to help you 
with the farm—” 

“But, Dan!” broke in Deborah, who was a year older 
than her brother, “you are much too young, and you are 
so nearly ready to go up to Harvard!” 

“Hush, Deborah,” said their mother. “Your father 
and I have been expecting this. We cannot expect him 
to stay home in safety when the need of the country is 
so great.” She spoke so calmly that Deborah gazed at 
her in wonder. But Daniel, glancing at her swiftly, saw 
the pain deep down in the steadfast grey eyes that were 
watching him lovingly. Gently he reached out his hand 
and covered hers clenched tightly under the table. 

“My boy,” said Deacon Dunham, “I have realized 
for some time you were becoming restive under all the 
insults and ignominies that the British here in Newport 
are putting on our folk, even since Colonel Barton suc¬ 
ceeded in capturing General Prescott. But remember 
that they are not all like that. There are Englishmen, 
such as Pitt, whose sympathies are with us in our fight 
for liberty. Do not go into this war with hate in your 

[ 235 1 


heart; rather with a cool courage and determination. 
Remember that our forefathers came to this land to find 
freedom to worship God, and liberty, which God will¬ 
ing, we will yet attain! The motto our family bore in 
England was, Always Faithful; we make little of such 
things, but it is good to remember! Have you made any 
plan as to how and where you will go?” 

“Yes, Father. Captain Adams is going to rejoin his 
regiment in Connecticut. He will take me with him, if 
I can get across the bay to meet him before noon today.” 

“So soon, Dan?” asked his mother softly. “For how 
long shall you enlist?” 

“Until we have won! ” answered the boy. “There have 
been too many short enlistments, Captain Adams says, 
with the men leaving to go home to tend crops. They 
are organizing a new corps, where every man enlists 
to the end.” 

“But, why can’t I go too?” demanded Jesse, “I can 
beat a drum! I could beat a drum as loud as anyone! ” 

This made them all laugh, and when a little later in 
the morning with a few necessary things packed into a 
knapsack, Dan bid them all a sad farewell, Jesse was 
still begging to be allowed to go with him. 

“I want to be faithful too!” he said. “Can’t I, please?” 

His mother put her arm around his sturdy little 
shoulders, hugging him close, and answered: 

“You must stay home and be faithful to us and your 

[236] 


work till you are bigger, little son. We will need you 
and David, you know!” 

***** 

On a dark night in July, 1779, a private soldier 
tramped back and forth, musket on his shoulder, in 
front of a farmhouse high above the Hudson River, 
where it narrows to run between towering cliffs on 
either side. He was Private Daniel Dunham of the 
Fourth Battalion of the Light Infantry Corps, sun¬ 
burnt, sturdy and very smart in his blue and buff uni¬ 
form. As he tramped to and fro on his beat, keeping 
an alert watch on everything about him, his thoughts 
roamed over the two years that had passed since he left 
home. They were two long years of hard fighting and 
hard living, full of dangers and privations that had made 
a man of him at sixteen. He was very proud of his 
assignment to the Light Infantry. Together with all 
the men in the command he admired and loved their 
leader, the brilliant, daring General Anthony Wayne. 
Because of his reckless bravery and ready resource, they 
had nicknamed him “Mad Anthony.” 

Dan knew there was something important going on in 
the farmhouse that night. Just after dark, a party of 
men on horseback had ridden up and gone inside with 
Colonel Febiger of the First Battalion. There were 
lights behind the shuttered windows, and the faint rum¬ 
ble of low voices. The men had been in there nearly 

[ 237 ] 


two hours. Dan swung on his beat, and tramped 
toward the door of the house. Just as he reached the 
path, the door opened. 

The light from inside illumined Wayne’s keen face, 
with its beak-like nose and square, determined chin. It 
threw into sharp silhouette the figure of his companion, 
a man of more than ordinary size, broad-shouldered, 
with a splendid military carriage. With a thrill Dan 
realized that it could be no other than General Wash¬ 
ington. As he brought his musket sharply to salute, 
he heard General Wayne speak: 

“I would storm hell, General, if you would only plan 
it,” he said emphatically. 

“Hadn’t we better try the other first?” the Comman¬ 
der-in-chief’s deep voice replied, and they both laughed, 
as they stepped outside. 

Wayne’s sharp eyes caught sight of the boy standing 
stiffly at attention, and he gave him a quick scrutiny. 

“I want a word with you, sentry, when I return. Wait 
here.” And rejoining his companion, they walked on 
to where General Washington’s horse and escort waited. 
After a few minutes’ more talk, General Washington 
mounted, and the horsemen rode off into the night. 
Wayne stood watching them out of sight, and then 
slowly returned. He was deep in thought as he passed 
Dan, still standing at attention waiting for him. 

Dan knew that it was not the place of a private sol- 
[ 238 ] 


dier to address his commanding officer. He wondered 
just what he was to do, when General Wayne entered 
the house and closed the door behind him. Dan was 
supposedly on guard duty on a beat. But his command¬ 
ing officer had given him orders to wait here until he 
returned to speak to him. It was an embarrassing posi¬ 
tion to be in. 

There was still a light inside. Dan could not tell 
whether the officers of his own regiment had gone out 
by the other door through which General Washington’s 
escort had passed to rejoin him, or if they were still in 
the house. 

He was beginning to get stiff standing there, when 
the door opened again. Colonel Febiger, Colonel Fleury 
—a Frenchman—and Colonel Butler of his own regi¬ 
ment came out together, he heard Colonel Butler’s gruff 
“Good night, sir.” Colonel Fleury’s lighter tones “Bon 
soir, mon cher generatel” and General Wayne’s voice 
from inside answering. Then Febiger caught sight of 
him at the side of the path: 

“What are you doing standing there, sentry? Why 
are you not on your rounds?” he asked sharply. 

“The General told me to wait here, sir,” Dan an¬ 
swered. 

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” Colonel Febiger ejaculated, 
and turning he re-entered the house. An instant later 
he once more came out. 


[ 239 ] 


“General Wayne says for you to step inside, sentry, 
he has something to say to you. Ill tell the other sentry 
on the go to relieve you until the General dismisses 
you.” He returned Dan’s salute, and went on his way. 

From the small entry hall, Dan went into a room at 
the left where were a few lights. General Wayne sat at 
a large table, on which were spread maps, pens, an ink- 
horn, a few empty goblets. Several chairs pushed back 
as their occupants had left them, stood about it. The 
General looked up as he entered. 

“You are the sentry who was outside as I came out? 
Did you know the officer with me at the time?” 

Dan hesitated. Was this a time when it was better 
to have been blind, he wondered? Perhaps it was, but 
he had been brought up to speak the truth, no matter 
what the consequences. 

“Yes, sir. It was the Commander-in-chief, sir,” he 
answered. 

“Did you hear anything that was said?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What, exactly did you hear?” 

“I heard you say, sir, that you’d storm hell for him. 
I guess we all would, sir, if you would lead us!” 

The general’s lips twitched into a smile. “Thank you, 
sentry. Now answer me truthfully. What did you un¬ 
derstand me to mean?” 

“Stony Point, sir. It’s pretty heavily fortified. It 
[ 240 ] 


would be hard to take, but General Washington wants 
King’s Ferry again. That’s pretty generally known.” 

“What do you know of the fortifications there, sen¬ 
try, or is that something else ‘pretty generally known’?” 

“Well, sir, I’ve seen it.” 

“You have seen it?” The general’s keen eyes bored 
into him. “Now look here, boy. Tell me when you 
saw it, what you saw of the fortifications.” 

“Perhaps I ought not to have done it, sir, but yester¬ 
day, when I was off duty, I thought I’d try to climb 
Donderberg Mountain. I picked up quite a bit of wood¬ 
craft from some of our Indian guides, sir. I got around 
to the front without much difficulty. There are a lot 
of rocky ledges. Guess they have been used rather often 
as vidette posts by both the British and our men when 
we held Stony Point. 

“Anyway, I came out on one, lay down and wriggled 
over to the edge. I could see all over the country, sir! 
The British frigate Vulture anchored in the river; Fort 
Lafayette over at Verplank’s Landing, and right down 
into Stony Point. They have set up two lines of abatis 
made of tree trunks and brush, and what looked like a 
series of redoubts with some twelve pounders mounted 
in them. That’s about all, I think, sir.” 

“H-m-m. What’s your name?” 

“Daniel Dunham, sir. Fourth Company, Major 
Hull’s Battalion.” 


[ 241 ] 


The general sat silent for a moment, drawing imag¬ 
inary lines with a dry penpoint on one of the maps. 
Then having evidently come to a decision, he looked 
up with his quick, keen glance. 

“Could you take me there, do you think, Dunham?” 
he asked. 

“Why-er—yes, sir.” Dan answered a little doubtfully. 
“It’s a pretty stiff climb though, sir. The forest is pretty 
thick, and there are only a few trails.” 

There was an instant’s pause, then General Wayne’s 
face relaxed, and he broke into a shout of laughter. 

“Am I getting fat, is it my uniform, or do I really 
seem so ancient to you, Dunham?” he asked at last, 
with a broad grin. “Well, never mind—” With a quick 
return to his former manner he continued, “Report 
here by nine o’clock in the morning. You will accom¬ 
pany me up the mountain. Here,” he picked up a sheet 
of paper, and scribbled a line on it, “give this to your 
sergeant; you are relieved from further duty for tonight. 
Get to bed and to sleep. It’s a hard climb even for the 
young and slim. And Dunham,” his voice changed and 
became hard, cold, and menacing, “mark me. If any 
word of this escapes your lips, it will mean instant death! 
I will not suffer any one to pass with his life who betrays 
or in anyway endangers the cause! That is all.” He 
was deep in his work again, before Dan was out of the 
room. 

[ 242 ] 


The man to whom Dan reported the following morn¬ 
ing, was a very different person from the military com¬ 
mander in his handsome uniform, his white wig, his 
ruffled shirt and high stock. This man wore just such 
clothes as Dan himself wore—rough clothes fit for for¬ 
est running or mountain climbing. The General’s nat¬ 
urally dark hair clipped close under his broad-brimmed 
hat made him almost unrecognizable. Long before they 
were halfway to their destination, Dan had lost his 
awe of him, and was talking as freely as to his father, 
or even as to his own friends. Dressed this way the 
general indeed seemed very little older than many of 
his chosen friends. 

He asked Dan about his home and his family, and 
told of his own childhood, and the despair of the good 
old uncle who was educating him, because of his prefer¬ 
ence for organizing his boy friends into armies and con¬ 
ducting mimic battles! He told too of his school days 
in Philadelphia; he spoke with admiration, of General 
Washington’s leadership; of the great advantage to the 
Continental Army in the formation of the land in New 
Jersey and New York. All the time they were working 
their way higher and higher, up the steep slopes of the 
mountain. 

At last they came to a little trail. Dan recognized it 
as the one along which he had gone to the rocky ledge 
and from which he had been able to look down into the 

[ 243 ] 


fort. The two men moved forward cautiously. How¬ 
ever, there was no sign of lookouts. The British were 
quite unaware of the nearness of the American army, 
and felt perfectly secure in their strong little fortress. 

After a thorough survey of the situation, the General 
moved back on the ledge and sitting with his back 
against the wall of rock, he started making notes and 
drawing a diagram of the fort. 

“Ugly place to attack!” he muttered as he worked. 
Dan, who had been lying on the edge looking down 
at the river and the fort jutting out into it, rolled over 
and sat up, his eyes shining. 

“It reminds me of a story my father used to tell me, 
sir, about how the English seaman, Admiral Drake, 
long ago attacked and conquered the Spanish port of 
Cartagena. It was like this place—the only entrance, a 
causeway—” 

“Yes,” the General had laid down his pencil, and was 
looking at him intendy, “and how did they attack?” 

“They made their way along the edge through the 
water. The Spaniards were taken entirely by surprise, 
and Drake conquered the city.” 

“Not a bad suggestion. Might very well apply it 
here.” He studied his sketch again, put in a few lines, 
moved over to where he could once more look into the 
fortress, staring down at it as though picturing the 
action. Then he shoved the papers into his pockets. 

[ 244 ] 


“Come along. This will do for the time. And if you 
can hold your tongue, there may be a promotion in this 
for you. Not promising anything, understand—” he 
swung about and plunged into the thicket on the down¬ 
ward trail. Dan followed, his heart beating high with 
pride and admiration for his general. 

For the next few days, the Light Infantry Corps 
worked as it had never worked before. Drill, drill, drill, 
and always more drill with the bayonet; and rumor 
flew like wildfire through the camp, though nothing 
was confirmed. The men knew that there had been 
several scouting parties, that even General Washington 
had gone with General Wayne and an escort of horse¬ 
men under General Lee, somewhere—it was not known 
where! There were small parties out guarding the roads 
to keep information regarding them from reaching the 
British. Then, one day a scout detail came in with the 
news that they had been out hunting dogs, that all dogs 
at nearby farms had either been killed or sent away! 

“Now, what do you suppose that was for?” asked 
Peter Van Horne of his friend Daniel Dunham. The 
two were sitting outside Dan’s tent. The day had been 
intensely hot, heavy, and close, with the sky seeming 
like a blue metallic bowl pressed down over them. 
Now the night was breathless, though heavy clouds 
were slowly piling up behind the mountains. And now 
and again there came a rumble of approaching thunder. 

[ 245 ] 


“Can’t guess,” said Dan, looking up from the letter 
he was writing to his mother to tell her of his promotion 
to sergeant. “Maybe they were keeping someone awake 
at night! Glory, but it’s hot! ” 

“Isn’t it, though! Do you think that thunderstorm 
will get here? It might cool things off and make that 
eternal bayonet drill Mad Anthony is so crazy about a 
little less unbearable! What do you think he’s planning, 
Dan?” 

“Strangely enough, Pete, he hasn’t consulted me on 
that point. And of course you know generals usually 
do consult some obscure little sergeant before they make 
their plans! ” 

“Oh, if you are going to be smarty, I’ll go find some 
one else to talk to! Your new rank has made you aw¬ 
fully close-mouthed,” and Peter got to his feet in a huff. 

“I’m sorry, Pete, really. I just wanted to finish my 
letter. Oh, hello, it’s raining. Let’s go in and get some 
sleep; perhaps it will get cooler.” He picked up his 
writing things, kicked the two stools inside the tent, 
and with his arm over Peter’s shoulder, the two went 
inside. 

But the rain was only a shower, and did not cool the 
air very -much. The next morning after inspection, in¬ 
stead of the customary bayonet drill, the entire brigade 
was ordered out on the march under full equipment. 
They were given no destination, but as they swung 
[ 246 ] 


southward along the river, excitement and eagerness for 
the anticipated action ran high. The men found it dif¬ 
ficult to restrain themselves. 

Through steep and narrow trails, they wound their 
way. On all sides were towering rocky crags and thick 
forests. The air was heavy and still. At a brawling, 
noisy little creek, they were halted to drink, and to eat 
their slim rations. There they were given their first 
orders that indicated definite action; thereafter march¬ 
ing was to be in single file, and in silence. 

Over the foot of Donderberg Mountain, and out into 
a valley dotted with lonely farms they went, until as 
darkness fell they were halted for another rest. In a 
hollow concealed from the river the entire brigade lay 
hidden, awaiting the final orders that should call them 
to arms. 

Dan listened to the orders read in a low tone and stuck 
the bit of white paper given him in his hat. This was 
so that they might know which were their own men. 
For there had been one battle in the dark, where in the 
confusion there had been no way to distinguish friend 
from foe. Wayne wanted no such catastrophe again. 
Dan had been detailed, with nineteen other men under 
Lieutenant Gibbon, to lead the left wing to the front 
line of the abatis, and to cut through it, opening the 
way for the rest of the column. They were to have no 
charges for their muskets, except for the center column, 

[ 247 1 


which was to attack straight along the causeway, after 
the opening had been made. 

Silently they made their way forward. The tide was 
out in the river and Dan felt the scratch of rushes 
against his legs. Then waist deep they struck out at an 
angle till they reached the steep rocky bank. But some¬ 
where, a picket heard the splash of water, caught the 
glint of light on a bayonet, and fired his gun to give the 
alarm. A drum in the fort rolled out its call to arms. 

Then Dan realized they had reached the tangled mass 
of tree trunks and brush. His axe was swinging into it, 
along with the others. He could feel it go down under 
the steady blows. Another instant and he was over the 
ramparts. Throwing aside his axe, he unslung his bay- 
onetted musket, and charged with his comrades into the 
midst of the fort. 

From the right he could hear the triumphant shout of 
the watchword: “The fort is ours! The fort is ours! ” 
From the center came the sharp rattle and crack of 
musket fire, mingled with the roar of the British cannon. 

The fight did not last long. Even the British cannon 
could not stop the furious assault that was coming from 
all sides. It was redoubled, as the men caught the news 
that General Wayne was wounded. Then came the cry 
of “Surrender! Mercy! Mercy!” 

Dan heard it, and even in the madness of the fight 
withheld a thrust of his poised bayonet; for as in other 
[ 248 ] 


battles there came to him a quick memory of his father’s 
words: “Do not go with hate in your heart!” The Brit¬ 
ish were throwing down their muskets, and on every 
side the Americans had ceased their attack. They had 
won! 

Pushing his way forward through British and Ameri¬ 
cans, past the dead and the wounded, Dan came to 
where a group of officers had gathered. In the center 
wearing a head bandage through which a red stain had 
spread, General Wayne stood facing the British colonel 
who had been in command. The Englishman drew his 
sword and offered it hilt first, to the General. 

“Sir,” he said in a low voice, so low Dan could barely 
hear it, “I feel it no disgrace to offer my sword in sur¬ 
render to the man who could plan and execute such a 
brilliant project, and not the least of your triumph is 
that in your hour of glory, your men heeded the cry 
for mercy.” 

Dan drew a deep breath of relief as he heard the Gen¬ 
eral’s voice make a reply. He was about to turn away 
when he felt the General’s eyes meet his own, and he 
signalled Dan to come to him. The Colonel had left 
when Dan reached him, but his aides and Colonel 
Febiger were there still, and he leant heavily on Lieu¬ 
tenant Fishbourne’s arm. 

“Glad to see you came through it safely, sergeant,” 
he said, “I shall be sending a communication to Gen- 

[ 249 1 


eral Washington in an hour. You shall carry it, ‘Brevet- 
Ensign 5 Dunham . 55 He smiled at the dawning surprise 
on the boy’s face. 

# # # # * 

There were two more years of the long struggle. 
Then, down on the shore of the York River where Count 
de Grasse’s great ships lay at anchor; where after the 
ten-day battle that had ended in surrender the armies 
of Washington and Rochambeau were encamped; 
where the troops of Lord Cornwallis were slowly stack¬ 
ing their guns before the long lines of American troops 
and their French allies, it was here that Ensign Dan 
Dunham at last found time to stroll leisurely down the 
street of the little, shot-torn village of Yorktown. The 
road was ploughed with furrows made by cannon balls 
and rutted with the tracks of heavy artillery wagons. 
The brick houses, scarred and seamed with bullet and 
shot, interested him hugely. In all his four years with 
the army, he had never before been in the South, and 
it was all very new and different to his New England 
eyes. He observed the stately, square brick houses, with 
their white doorways and deep porches; gardens, that 
even so late in the fall, still were a riot of flowers. He 
rather wondered how it would feel to live in one of these 
homes; to be waited on by Negro slaves, with nothing 
to do he supposed, but ride about superintending things. 

[ 2 5o 1 


And Dan decided that, after all, he much preferred 
his own New England farm. 

He stopped by the side of the road to watch a hand¬ 
some bay mare picking her way daintily through the 
muddy street. Her rider was a Major in one of the 
Carolina regiments. Dan, without a thought of envy 
in his heart, admired the sleek beautiful animal and the 
well-tailored set of the man’s buckskin breeches and blue 
uniform coat. Dan also noticed the Sword swinging 
against the Major’s leg and showing a glint of jewels in 
its hilt. Lucky man, to have a sword like that, thought 
Dan. 

The major returned Dan’s salute, reined in the mare, 
and with a quick pleasant smile, asked if Dan happened 
to know whether the house he was approaching was one 
where certain British prisoners were quartered. 

“I don’t know,” answered Dan frankly, “I guess so, 
there’s a soldier on guard at the door. Were you looking 
for someone?” Dan felt a warm, unaccountable liking 
for this stranger, quite apart from his handsome face 
and accoutrements, his pleasant manner or the beautiful 
horse he rode. There was something oddly familiar 
about him, and Dan wanted to hear his voice again, with 
its soft, southern drawl. 

“I went to school in England as a boy,” smiled the 
Major, “and I am told there is an old school friend of 
mine here. I’ll stop and ask. Thank you!” he called 
[ 251 ] 


back, as the mare moved impatiently away to the south. 

Dan watched him go in, saw him come out again 
a few minutes later, spring into the saddle and ride away. 
He would probably never see him again, there were so 
many officers here. Already a good many regiments— 
particularly the Carolina ones—were moving on. 

He walked slowly past the house. In the window, 
two British officers sat at a table there, lazily playing a 
game of cards to while away the time. A scrap of their 
talk drifted out to Dan. 

“By Jove!” exclaimed one, “That Yankee chap here 
just now called himself Major Francis Denham—I’ve 
got it. I mean, who he looked like as he stood there, 
with his hand on his sword! He might have stepped 
out of one of the portraits at Donham Manor, the family 
seat of my uncle, Lord Donham. He was the one who 
made his son resign from the Guards because, he said, 
y’know, that some member of the family had come to 
the Colonies generations back, and he might be killing 
his own kith and kin. Almost the same name, too. Odd, 
what?” 

It was odd, thought Dan, for the name sounded like 
his too. He was tempted to go in and ask the Britishers 
about it, but high and far a bugle blew calling the men 
back to camp. Dan hurried to answer its summons, and 
the moment when the three branches of the Donham 
family might have met, had passed. 

[ 252 ] 



CHAPTER IX 
1865 

THE HOUSE IN THE SOUTH 

When North and South Met in Civil War 

In which a Dunham from the North rides into the 
South in 1865. Where the Luck, for many years now 
only a ceremonial sword worn on State occasions and 
to balls, has once more been drawn in warfare . 
Where a Dunham meets a Denham and rescues an 
old portrait, as a second old house suffers from a 
civil war . 


[ 253 ] 









I N the early spring of the year 1865, the Union Army 
under General Sherman having fought its way 
through the South to Georgia, was slowly working 
back up through the Carolinas, the desperate Confeder¬ 
ates disputing every mile of the route. Word had come 
in to Union Headquarters, that a clever Confederate 
spy was operating from a certain big plantation house 
in the Tidewater section. Orders had forthwith been 
given to the colonel of a Massachusetts regiment deploy¬ 
ing on the left wing of the army to make a thorough 
search. If possible, he was to capture the spy and put a 
stop to the source of information to the enemy. 

In River Lea House, toward which Colonel Dunham 

[ 255 1 


of the regiment was leading his men, Frank Denham 
leaned against the edge of his mother’s dressing table 
watching the movement of her slender fingers. She was 
patching his jacket which had already stood rather more 
mending than had seemed possible. 

“There, honey,” she told him as she took the final 
stitch, “I think that will last a little longer. I hope so, 
as it is almost the last of yo’ daddy’s clothes. What we 
will do when they are all gone, I really do not know! ” 

“It looks beautiful, Mummy, I don’t mind mends. 
You do it so that it looks like part of the jacket,” he 
answered admiringly, as he slipped it on. He picked 
up her scissors and an end of thread, snipping it off 
in minute bits, “Mummy, that Yankee army is gettin’ 
very near, isn’t it?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on 
his piece of thread. 

“Yes, honey,” she answered gravely, “it is. So near, 
that if it were not for the old secret passage, I could no 
longer get any information through to our army.” 

“Mummy,” he cried desperately, “suppose they should 
catch you! Oh, suppose they should come here and 
catch you! ” 

“They mustn’t catch me, sweetheart, I wouldn’t be 
much use to the Confederacy if they did! Don’t you 
worry, we have fooled them before, you an’ Hannibal an’ 
Mammy and I! And we will again, if we need to!” 

Frank turned to the window and gazed down the long 

[ 256 ] 


avenue, his face troubled. “Don’t you hear noises, Mum¬ 
my? Sounds? Like trampin’? Listen, isn’t that a bugle 
call?” 

She joined him, putting her arm around his shoulder, 
and listened. “Maybe you are right, honey. Send 
Mammy to me. If anyone should come, there is no one 
in the house but you and your grandmother, who is 
very ill! Hurry, dear. I trust you to do your part! ” 

The approaching regiment had come to a halt. Colo¬ 
nel Dunham rode forward to the great wrought-iron 
gates that barred the road before them. They were very 
beautiful gates, and the bolt that held them shut was 
fashioned like a sword, slim and perfect in design. 
The Colonel turned to his adjutant: 

“Odd, isn’t it? I wonder what its significance is. 
These wealthy Southern plantations have had so many 
romances woven about them.” 

His call brought out an old, bent Negro from the lodge 
to open the gate to them. 

“Afta-noon, Cunnel,” he said, “You’m a-wantin’ to 
go up yondah to de gret house, suh? Yessuh,” and he 
drew the sword from out of its clamp. 

“What is the sword for, uncle?” queried the colonel 
leaning from his saddle, with a quick pleasant smile for 
the old man. 

“Lawsy, suh, ah dunno. It sho’ ain’t no use in tryin’ 
to keep you-all Yankees out, dat’s certain! Hit look lak 

[ 257 ] 


Massa’s Sword, but dis un jes’ fasten de gate, ah reckon! ” 
Grumbling, he stumped back to his little cottage. 

The Colonel rode slowly up the wide road. Straight 
away it stretched, a magnificent driveway bordered on 
either hand with a double row of ancient live oaks. As 
he advanced, the house came into view. Framed in the 
drifting grey moss that garlanded the trees, it stood 
stately yet hospitable for all its unkempt appearance. 
Deep-fronted, of old, rose-colored brick with many high 
twisted chimneys, it had he thought an Old World look. 
Ivy and rose vines clambered over it. A wide terrace 
stretched across its front. 

He dropped the reins over the head of his big grey 
cavalry horse, dismounted, and leaving his adjutant be¬ 
low, he went up the steps. The door stood slightly open, 
letting in the soft warm spring air. He lifted the heavy 
iron knocker; the crash of it reverberated from the deep 
hall beyond. He waited, but there was no answer, and 
after a second attempt, he stepped through the open 
door into a great, dim, cool hall. A beautifully carved 
staircase swept upward in a gracious curve before him. 
Through a window beyond, he could catch a glimpse 
of terraced gardens stretching down to the river’s edge. 

A slight sound drew his eyes to the right. The fitful 
glow from a smouldering fire on the hearth lit up a 
small erect figure, standing in a doorway. An indignant 
young voice questioned his entrance. 

[ 258 ] 


“I am Colonel Dunham of the Federal Army, now 
occupying this territory. May I speak to your—parents? 
Or the head of the family?” 

“I am the head of the family, suh,” was the haughty 
reply. 

“I beg your pardon!” said the Colonel gravely. He 
gave a quick thought to his own carefree youngster about 
this boy’s age, at home with mother, brothers and sisters 
in the comfortable, homely little white house in the 
little New England town. “I must notify you of the 
necessity of quartering my troops on your plantation for 
the time being. I will endeavor to see that they commit 
no nuisance.” 

“I have no way to forbid it, suh!” was the answer. 
“But I will ask you to try to keep your men away from 
the house. My grandmother is very ill; she is upstairs.” 

“And is there no one else here?” 

“Some of the servants, suh,” he added quickly, for 
though he knew that of all the big staff of house servants 
River Lea plantation had once had, there were left only 
Hannibal and Mammy and their son, Cassius, it might 
be as well not to let the Yankees know it. 

The Colonel stood thinking for an instant. “If you 
can accommodate me and a couple of my officers in the 
house, I think I can arrange the rest satisfactorily,” he 
said finally. “Only, first I must search the house.” 

“Search the house, suh!” 

[ 259 ] 


“Yes, my errand makes that imperative. I am warned 
that there is a rebel spy hereabouts. If he is here, he 
will be caught.” 

The boy’s fair face flushed angrily, and he made as 
though to interrupt. But the Colonel continued steadily: 

“Sorry, my boy, but it’s the fortunes of war, which 
you seem luckily to have escaped so far.” 

“Escaped!” and there was a world of grown-up bitter¬ 
ness in the boyish voice. “Very well, suh. Search, and 
be damned to you! ” But his voice broke on a sob. 

Colonel Dunham stepped out on the terrace, and sent 
an order for a detail of his men to guard all sides of the 
house, and prevent anyone from leaving on any pretext. 
When he returned, accompanied by his adjutant, the 
boy was standing where he had left him. 

In silence, they mounted the staircase. From the top 
of the house down, room after room, they searched 
carefully, and there seemed an endless number of rooms. 

“Gosh, Colonel,” ejaculated the young adjutant, 
“what did they do with so many rooms? We could 
nearly quarter the whole regiment here!” 

In utter silence the boy led them around. On the sec¬ 
ond floor he stopped before a closed door, his hand on 
the knob. “This is my grandmothah’s room, suh, may 
I ask that you entah alone?” 

“Don’t do it, Colonel!” said the irrepressible adju¬ 
tant. “It’s a trap!” 


[ 260 ] 


“Suh, the Denhams are gentlemen, and know when 
they are dealing with one! Colonel, she doesn’t know 
anyone. If you are very quiet, you won’t disturb her.” 

“Denham, eh? And a sword! Well, here’s an odd 
coincidence!” muttered the Colonel; then to his adju¬ 
tant: “It is all right, Lieutenant; wait here!” And he 
crossed the threshold. 

On a huge mahogany bed with high carved posts, 
lay a little old lady with snowy hair. Her eyes were 
closed, one frail, blue-veined hand rested on the counter¬ 
pane. She seemed scarcely to breathe. By her side, a 
Negress, slowly swaying back and forth in a rocking 
chair, looked up as they came in and whispered: 

“Marse Frank, Marse Frank honey, yo’ hadn’t 
oughter bring nobody in here! Ole Miss, she mus’n’t 
be ’sturbed! ” 

“Very well, Mammy Pheely. This officer just wants 
to be suah Grandmothah isn’t hidin’ any spies in her 
room! ” 

“Sorry, madam, it is an unpleasant duty that must be 
done.” Colonel Dunham entered quietly, and made 
his inspection swiftly but thoroughly. As he passed the 
great bed where the sick woman lay, the delicate eye¬ 
lids lifted, the eyes looked straight at him: 

“Always faithful,” she murmured faintly, with a 
whimsical little smile, and closed her eyes again, though 
the little smile remained as they left the room. 

[ 261 ] 


Frank led the Colonel down the stairs into the great 
hall below. They passed through charming reception 
rooms, into a library filled with bookcases and comfort¬ 
able chairs. The room was lighted with a wide bay 
window. The sunlight streamed in through diamond¬ 
shaped panes of glass in the center of which was set a 
coat of arms. While Colonel Dunham and his adjutant 
measured the depth of bookcases, tapped panels and 
discussed the possibilities of concealed hiding places, 
Frank watched them with amusement. 

“Wouldn’t it be exciting if you really found some¬ 
thing there?” he suggested, “I always wanted so much 
to have a secret hiding place in the house.” 

After a fruitless search, they went on to the dining 
room, filled with gleaming mahogany. At the end of 
the room hung a full-length portrait of a handsome 
young officer in Confederate gray. 

“That is my fathah,” said Frank, proudly, “and my 
grandfathah, at the other end. They always hang so. 
When I am grown and have a son, my portrait will hang 
in Daddy’s place, and his in Granddaddy’s.” 

So they made the rounds, coming at last to the long 
picture gallery on the other side of the great hall, where 
hung the paintings of the belles and beaux of past gen¬ 
erations. Smiling beauties, in white satin with powdered 
wigs. Men in silks and velvets, and plumed hats, each 
wearing proudly a slim, jeweled dress Sword. Lovely 

[ 2 ^ 2 ] 


ladies in crinolines and curls; men in uniforms. All 
were gazing calmly down on this young son of their 
race. 

Over the fireplace, the portrait of a man caught and 
held the Colonel’s attention. For the cool, insolent, 
amused eyes seemed to follow every move they made, 
only to be gazing out over his head when he examined 
it. He turned to the boy at his side. 

“Of whom is this a portrait, if I may ask?” he said. 
“There is a strange fascination about it; he seems to 
smile. Yet there is an infinite sadness back of it, and 
oddly enough, I feel as if he were someone I know!” 

The boy laughed, for the first time in a friendly way: 
“That is odd, suh, indeed. Most people say he is wicked 
lookin’. He is the first Francis Denham. We always 
have a Francis Denham in the family. There is a legend 
that this first one was named for the English pirate, 
Drake.” 

They returned to the great hall finally; and in all the 
big house, from top to bottom was found no hint nor 
trace of the suspected spy. 

The Colonel dispatched his adjutant, with orders for 
the regiment’s disposal on the plantation; and himself, 
settled down in the library for consultation with a couple 
of his officers. 

Dinner was announced to them, with a formality 
strange in these war-torn days, by a little Negro boy. 

[ 263 ] 


They followed him into the dining room, where they 
were greeted by Frank, with the poise and courtesy of 
an equal. 

Candles shone in the dusky, dark-panelled room. The 
meal though scanty and very simple, was served from 
beautiful old china and silver, by a dignified Negro 
butler. They had nearly finished, when the Colonel 
heard his orderly, at the door of the room, arguing 
heatedly with the butler. 

“What is it, O’Reilly?” he asked, raising his voice 
slightly. 

“Will the Colonel plaize tell this naygur to be afther 
lettin’ me in to him? ’Tis a message I have for the 
Colonel!” 

“May I take the liberty to give an order to your 
servant? Hannibal, O’Reilly is my orderly. Let him in.” 

“Yessuh, yessuh, ef yo-all says so! But here, gemple- 
men doan’ like to be ’sturbed at dinner wid business, 
no suh! Go in, so-jer.” The picture of offended dignity, 
Hannibal stepped aside to let the orderly in. The mes¬ 
sage being a regimental matter, the Colonel rose hastily, 
beckoned to his adjutant, and the two left the room. 

Frank looked after them anxiously. This matter of 
being master of River Lea Plantation was not easy, but 
at least he had managed to quiet the Yankees’ sus¬ 
picions of a spy! The big old house had appeared inno¬ 
cent enough! He chuckled softly. Oh, but they had 

[ 264 ] 


fooled these soldiers! He slid out of his chair: “Excuse 
me, please, gentlemen. I must go to see how my grand- 
mothah is.” 

“Where is your famous Southern hospitality, young¬ 
ster?” jeered one of the officers. “How about some cof¬ 
fee to top off this skimpy meal your niggers have given 
us?” 

“We haven’t had coffee here, suh, for a year! If 
you-all want that, you had better get back to your camp, 
and eat the food you stole from us, instead of sittin’ at 
a gentleman’s table where you don’t belong!” 

“Why, you impudent little nigger-driver, you! I’ll 
teach you to talk differently to an officer of the United 
States Army!” And he started up from his chair. 

“Oh, shut up, Hicks,” cut in the second. “Can’t you 
try to be decent and act like a gentleman, even if the 
Colonel is not here? You provoked the boy.” 

Frank turned and walked out of the room. But once 
through the door he ran as though with wings on his 
heels, across the hall and up the stairs. At the door of 
the room where his supposed grandmother lay ill, he 
rapped out a quick little signal. 

“Come in!” called his mother’s soft voice. 

Two candles burned on the dressing table, in whose 
mirror was reflected the pretty face of the slim, dark¬ 
haired young woman. She smiled over her shoulder at 
the boy: “Well, honey?” she said. 


“Mothah darlin’, you were wonderful! An’ so was 
Mammy Pheely! The Yankee colonel is nice. Isn’t it 
funny, Mummy? He’s a Yankee, but he is nice. And 
doesn’t he look like Daddy? Was that why you said 
what you did to him? I was scared then! But those 
others are beasts, Mummy! ” 

“Nev’ mind, Frank honey, we’ll beat them yet! I 
am afraid of that Colonel, though. He is cleverer than 
the others who have come here, and he mustn’t have 
any reason to suspect that your Grandmothah is neither 
so old nor so ill as she appears to be, or he might realize 
that the spy he’s lookin’ for could be a woman! You 
may have to help again, darlin’.” 

“I wish I could help more, Mummy. If I were only 
bigger, I could do more!” 

“Sweetheart, Mummy wants her little boy. It’s hard 
enough havin’ her big boy out there, in danger—Oh, if 
this horrible war was over, and your daddy was home 
again, with the darkies singin’ in the fields and cabins, 
and their pickaninnies playin’ around—no, darlin’, I’m 
not cryin’, and I am glad I can help the Confederacy! 
But this Yankee Colonel does look so like Daddy, and 
he is a gentleman. I’d so much rather just think they 
were all Yankees!” 

Night came down over the big, old house, patterned 
with such loving care from a yet older house in England, 
by a homesick man. Across the plantation came the 

[ 266 ] 


many sounds of the encampment of the Union soldiers. 
Back and forth on the terrace paced a sentry. Some¬ 
where on the second floor slept the two young officers, 
and on the couch in the library lay the Colonel of the 
regiment. 

Tired out, he had thrown himself down for a much 
needed rest. So soundly did he sleep that even the pro¬ 
testing creak of a stair under the light pressure of swift- 
moving young feet did not disturb him. 

In the dark, silent hall, Frank stood listening. Re¬ 
assured by the stillness, he stole across the wide, familiar 
room, and into the long gallery. Moonlight streamed 
through the windows in a white splendor. By its light 
he made his way to the fireplace. Over it, the builder 
smiled down from the picture and seemed to watch his 
namesake press on a carved rose, even as he himself 
had done, long, long ago in the loved old home in 
England. 

With a slight click, a panel slowly slid back. In the 
white moonlight, the narrow opening gaped blackly. 
Frank, waiting for the messenger who was to meet his 
mother, gave the same quick, little rapping signal which 
he had used earlier on her door. Then he started back 
in surprise at the nearness of the whispered answer. 

“Oh-h,” he gasped, “Lieutenant Flarlee. This is 
Frank. They are here, a regiment of them camped on 
the plantation. The Colonel is here in the house, sleep- 

[267] 


ing. He came in and searched. I had just time to send 
Mammy Pheely up to Mothah—she played a sick grand- 
mothah—you remember how well she can act? And 
she thought it would leave her free, so she could come 
and go. But he’s stayed, and she daren’t leave her room, 
’cause they are lookin’ fo’ a spy, and if they knew she 
was it!” Here his voice faltered, “She says she wouldn’t 
be much use to the Confederacy then. But—” 

“All right, old man, I understand,” Harlee said com¬ 
fortingly. “Now, here are some papers for Mrs. Den¬ 
ham to take care of. Tell her to put them in some safe 
place ’til the Yankees leave. Can you tell me just how 
big a force they have, and when and where they are 
planning to move?” 

“I’ve heard quite a lot,” Frank said. Carefully, he 
repeated all he knew, and all that his mother had told 
him to say to her messenger. The lieutenant checked 
details as he proceeded. Twice he looked up, silencing 
the boy with a gesture. The old house seemed unusually 
full of those mysterious sounds old houses always have. 

At last, satisfied that he had all the information they 
could give him, Lieutenant Harlee turned once more 
to the secret entrance, paused, sniffed, and whispered: 

“Frank, has there been a fire in the fireplace recently? 
I smell smoke!” 

“Oh, yes, there was a fire in the hall; it gets chilly 
there at night.” 


[ 268 ] 


‘‘Very well,” doubtfully. “And don’t you worry about 
your mother! There’s nothin’ more she can do at pres¬ 
ent, anyway. The Yanks are pushing forward all along 
the line. General Johnson is falling back. Our food 
supplies are pretty near cut off, so all we can do is to 
sting ’em as they go, and hope for a turn in the luck. 
This lot will probably be on their way by morning!” 
With a pat on Frank’s shoulder, the lieutenant was 
swallowed up in the gaping, black hole. 

For an instant, his footfalls echoed back as he made 
his way down the narrow stair, and along the passage 
that led to the river. Then there was silence, and Frank 
released the spring that held open the panel. As it 
swung shut, the silence was broken suddenly, by rough 
voices, quarreling, and a scuffle outside. 

Frank jumped. Some one might be coming. And he 
was here in the night, with a package of papers contain¬ 
ing he knew not what! The secret panel had closed; 
it was slow in opening. He could not wait for it, so 
as to conceal the packet there. It was very flat, so he 
reached up, and thrust it inside the back of the painting 
over the fireplace. The first Denham concealed another 
secret beside his own, now! 

Frank softly stole across to the window, thinking as 
he went, that the moonlight that had seemed so silvery 
white when he entered the room, really looked much 
more like sunlight, it was such a ruddy color. He had 
[ 269 ] 


nearly reached the window, when a long tongue of 
flame, shot up and over it. A raucous voice bellowed: 

“Yah-h, nigger-drivers! ” 

Fire! Not much wonder they had smelled smoke! 
Frank sped down the long room, across the great hall, 
and up the staircase to his mother’s room. 

Fortunately it was in the opposite wing from the pic¬ 
ture gallery, but he must warn her, first of all. He 
pushed open the door, excitedly spluttered out his story. 
Mammy Pheely punctuated it with: “Lawsy, Marse 
Frank!” “Fo’ Gawd’s sake, Missy, git outen dis!” 

“Mammy,” said Mrs. Denham, “go wake up those 
Yankee officers. Tell them its probably their men who 
have started this fire! Call Hannibal and Cassius, send 
them to the upstairs windows with water. Frank, the 
Colonel, quick!” Then, as Frank started: “Frankie, 
the papers Harlee gave you—where did you put them?” 

“They are all right, I’ll take care of them!” he called 
back, as he raced down the stairs, two steps at a time. 

At the library door, he hammered with both fists, 
shouting for the Colonel. The boy then dashed to the 
other side of the hall. The fire stretched out ghostly, 
reeking fingers of smoke toward him as he reached 
the door. The murky glow inside stopped him momen¬ 
tarily. But remembering that Lieutenant Harlee had 
said to put the papers in a safe place, he set his teeth, 
took a deep breath of air, and entered the smoky room. 

[ 270 ] 


Reaching up behind the picture, he felt for the packet. 
He could touch a corner of it, but try as he would, he 
could not get hold of it. His eyes stung with the smoke; 
the fumes were making him choke and cough. He 
could hear people calling, the gathering roar of flames; 
the hiss of steam. Still he struggled to get the packet. 

Outside the room someone was shouting for him: 
“Frank, Frank, where are you?” He could see the 
shadowy figure making its way toward him through the 
smoke, it looked monstrous in the flickering light of 
the fire. He made one more desperate effort to reach 
the packet, then the Yankee colonel spoke: 

“What are you trying to do, sonny? Come out of this 
room quickly before we are caught!” said the kindly 
voice. “You can’t take that picture down. Here, I’ll 
do it, if you won’t leave it. Run!” He caught the sides 
of the frame, freed it from its hook, and reached the 
door, Frank close at his side, just as a burst of fire shot 
into the room. 

“There’s no hope of saving it now!” he shouted, over 
the roar of flame and the crash of a falling wall. “We’d 
better see about getting out the old lady from upstairs, 
before the fire spreads further.” Standing the picture 
on the floor, against an inner wall, Colonel Dunham 
started to the door for help, when a half-clad, smoke- 
begrimed man appeared on the staircase, and the once 
trim and dapper young adjutant said: 

[ 271 ] 


“Beg to report, sir, fire’s under control. That wing 
is entirely gutted; the falling wall put out the last of 
the fire. And I regret to say, sir, that we caught the 
men who started it. Two of our own, sir—and drunk 
as lords, sir!” 

It was five hours later, when Frank saw the ruin 
again. He had gone back to his mother’s room, where 
he had slept fitfully and nervously; time and again he 
woke to sit upright, the reek of smoke still in his nostrils, 
and the horrid crackle of flames echoing in his ears. 
The morning sun shone down on a shattered wall, and 
a blackened pile of brick hid forever the entrance to the 
secret passage. Burnt fragments of furniture showed 
here and there, and a faint haze of smoke hung over 
all the wrecked wing. 

Frank stood and gazed down at it. Dimly he remem¬ 
bered bright days before the war began, when the house 
overflowed with guests, music and laughter. There had 
been dancing in the ballroom beyond the gallery, gone 
entirely now. Negro boys, their white teeth gleaming 
with good-natured smiles in their black faces, attended 
the horses that had been ridden in from neighboring 
plantations. 

He flung back his head. The Luc\ would come back 
to the house when the war was over. Perhaps there 
were more Yankees as fine and kindly as this Colonel. 
And the Confederate States and the United States could 
[ 272 ] 


lie side by side, North and South, in peace and friend¬ 
ship. 

A hand fell on his shoulder, the Colonel looked down 
at him and smiled: 

“Cheer up, youngster; we have saved part of it for 
you—the best of it! And that is what we hope to do 
for the country: save as much as we can. It is a terrible 
war. But when it is over, God willing, we will try to 
rebuild more strongly than before, so that if ever a 
foreign enemy molest us again, we will all stand shoul¬ 
der to shoulder, strong and ever faithful to the best and 
noblest that is in us! Now come and tell me why, of 
all the beautiful paintings in the gallery, it was this 
particular one you wanted to save? I am interested in 
him, you may remember.” 

Frank caught his breath—there was that packet! In¬ 
deed it was lucky it was the portrait of the builder of 
the house, instead of just any of the others, without any 
particular story! So, perched on the arm of a chair, 
facing the picture, he told the legend that had grown 
up about the old portrait. 

“You see, suh, he was the very first Denhem heah, 
when the Colonies had just begun. Nobody eveh knew 
where he came from; he just appeared one day from a 
ship that had been driven ashore in a storm. And he 
smiled, just as he smiles in that picture, when anyone 
asked him where he came from, and he neveh told any- 

[ 273 ] 


body—just smiled. He built this house out of ballast 
brick from England, and he even made plans for the 
gardens, though I suppose he neveh saw them finished. 
And he bought slaves. Some people thought him the 
devil himself. They called him ‘Devil Denham.’ He 
was very rich. One of the stories is that he had been a 
pirate and had a buried treasure, so that when he wanted 
money, he went out and dug it up! Daddy says that 
when he was a boy, he once saw a funny old map on a 
piece of parchment that was supposed to be the map to 
the treasure! I would love to find it. It would be great 
fun to dig up a buried treasure! 

“By-and-by,” Frank continued, “when Devil Denham 
was a very old man, he married, and he left his son 
this house, a beautiful Sword, and a little old painting 
of a beautiful lady that’s up in my mother’s room—” 
he stopped, and shot a quick glance at the Colonel, and 
then hurried on. “It’s rather fun, having a queah person 
like that in your family, don’t you think so?” 

“Yes, indeed. He is rather a splendid looking person, 
too, in that picture, isn’t he? And is that the sword that 
he left his son? What became of it?” 

“The Luc\? Yes, that’s it. Daddy has it. My daddy 
looks just like him,” said the boy, wistfully. “You know, 
suh, you look like him, yourself. I think that is why I 
liked you right away, even if you are a Yankee.” 

“I am glad we are friends, Frank. Some day, perhaps, 

[ 274 ] 


I will come back when we all have the same flag again, 
and we will be good friends—your daddy and I, my 
son and you. War is a horrible thing. Brother fights 
against brother—even as in that civil war in England, 
which sent first Roundhead, then Cavalier to settle in 
this land. The same was true later. When our fore¬ 
fathers had to fight to gain liberty for our land, they 
too, were fighting their own kin. But we must be faith¬ 
ful to our ideals.” 

O’Reilly, the orderly, appeared in the doorway, “I’m 
afther reporrtin’ to the Colonel, that the rigiment is 
ready to move, sir-r; and the Colonel’s ho-orse is waitin’ 
outside.” 

A setting sun, throwing long shadows across the 
blackened ruin of the right wing, saw quiet settle down 
once more over River Lea. 


^ 

When at last that bitter war was over, the Luc\ was 
brought back to River Lea, but the man who had car¬ 
ried it away would never return. He slept his last, long 
sleep at Gettysburg with thousands of his brothers-in- 
arms. 

River Lea was closed, for there was no money to keep 
it up, and Frank and his mother moved into a little 
house in Charleston, so that Frank might attend a school 
opened by a Confederate officer for the sons of his com- 

[ 275 ] 


rades. Together, on their last day in the big house, 
mother and son went to bid farewell to the portrait of 
the late master of River Lea, and there Mrs. Denham 
gave the Luc\ into Frank’s hands. 

“You are all the man I have now, honey,” she said. 
“And the Luc\ is yours. Your father would have wanted 
you to have it. We are goin’ to be very poor, but we’ll 
never give up the Luc\; only my dariin’, I pray it will 
never be drawn in anger again! ” 

“We may be poor for a while, Mummy. I’ve got a lot 
to learn. But we’ll keep the Luc\, and I’ll bring you, 
and it, back to River Lea,” he replied. Mrs. Denham 
smiled—looked at him, slim and tall beside her. She 
realized then that her little boy was gone forever. 

Colonel Dunham came a few years later, looking for 
them, but the house was still closed, the grounds forlorn 
and desolate. Years after he came again, an old man 
now, and drove through the wide swung wrought-iron 
gates, up a beautifully cared for driveway. He passed 
under the festoons of silvery grey moss drifting down 
from the oaks, with azalea and jessamine in bloom on 
all sides; and on to the lovely old house, bowered in its 
climbing roses and ivy. A trim Negro butler answered 
his knock, and in answer to his inquiry, replied: 

“No, suh, de massa ain’t home. OP Miss, she died 
long about a mounf ago, an’ Massa, he done gone to 
Yurrop to trabble. 


[276] 



There Mrs. Denham gave the Luc\ into Franks hands 












































































“Yes, suh, I’ll sho’ remember to gibe him yo’ card, 
but suh, won’t yo’ come in an’ see de gyardens? Dey’s 
mos’ particularly beautiful dis year, an’ de Massa, he’d 
be moughty angry effan I done let a frien’ ob his go 
widout offerin’ his hospitality, suh.” 

So once again the Colonel stepped into the well-re¬ 
membered hall, and out onto the terrace beyond to gaze 
over well-kept gardens sweeping in all their springtime 
loveliness down to the river. For a while he sat, smiling 
over old memories, deeply glad that his young friend 
had done so well. Then he returned through the hall, 
glancing toward the great open fireplace, almost expect¬ 
ing to see again the slight, indignant young figure that 
he had first seen there. Instead his eyes were drawn to 
the portrait hanging above it, insolent, smiling eyes 
seeming to meet his amusedly—the portrait he and 
Frank had rescued that night from the fire. Under it 
in a glass case lay a sword with a jeweled hilt—the 
Luc\ of the House. 

The Colonel shook his white head and smiled back, 
“A-ha, my friend,” he said softly, “I’ve learned your 
secret for I’ve been to England. But I’ll not tell. The 
Luc\ will find its way back to Donham Manor in its 
own good time.” 


[ 279 1 







CHAPTER X 

19 18 

THE LUCK COMES HOME 

When North and South Stood Side by Side with the 
Land of Their Fathers to Uphold Honor and Faith 

In which the Luck at last finds its way home. And 
a Donham, a Dunham, and a Denham join hands 
over it in the old English manor house. 


f 281 ] 



















T HE Great War was over. The guns along all 
fronts were silent after four long years of horror. 
Little by little the soldiers were returning to their 

homes. 

Serene, waiting, and still, in the golden haze of the 
late English sunshine stood the Manor House of Don- 
ham. Its mullioned windows shone in the light of the 
setting sun that had known it down the long centuries 
of its life. The sun seemed to caress with the loving 
fingers of a friend, the mellow rose-hued brick walls 
and the tall, twisted chimneys, overgrown with ivy. 
Rose vines trailed over the balustrade of the flagged 
terrace that lay across the great breadth of the house. 

[ 283 ] 


Their dried leaves and orange-red haws rattled in the 
chilly breeze. 

Below the wide, low stone steps, the thick green velvet 
of the turf spread out on both sides of the once jusdy 
famous Avenue of Oaks. The trees had marched two 
and two on either side of the drive, straight away for a 
full half mile to the gates. Now, but a single line on 
each side remained. The scarred and patched turf was 
a mute reminder of their former grandeur. They had 
gone along with other timber from all over England, to 
help build the trenches and dugouts in Flanders and 
France. They had gone so that the sons of this ancient 
land and its allies should have such scant protection as 
the mighty oaks might give against a barrage of enemy 
shell fire. 

Now the old, old house awaited the return of its 
youngest son. This man was the last hope of the family, 
and the pride of the old man, who stood waiting, even 
as the house waited, at the head of the Avenue of Oaks. 
Then clear on the air, came a high, merry, hunting call. 
It was answered by many cheering voices in the distance. 

“He is coming, Godolphin!” cried the old lord, 
shaken from his usual dignified calm. His butler stood 
behind him in the doorway, where all the servants were 
gathered. 

“Yes, your lordship, it sounds like the old days, hear¬ 
ing Master Charles coming home this way! ” 

[ 284 ] 


Old Lord Donham took a step down from the terrace. 
Surely, he thought, he could hear the clang of the great 
wrought-iron gates. 

Then up the long driveway swung the high cart, 
drawn by a smart young hackney stepping at a fine pace. 
The driver’s whip cracked and a spurt of gravel flew 
out from the roadbed under the wheels. 

“Yoicks! Gone away!” carolled the driver who sud¬ 
denly reined in. The cob, thrown almost to his haunches, 
came to an abrupt stop: “No, not gone away, but come 
home! ” he continued. With a leap, young Charles Don¬ 
ham was down from the cart and up the wide steps, 
calling back to his two companions: “Come on, fel¬ 
lows!” and then: “Granddad!” 

Ignoring the outstretched hand, the gentle dignified 
“Welcome home, grandson,” from the old gentleman, 
the lad flung his arms around the thin, old shoulders 
and kissed his grandfather heartily. 

“I’ve been to France, y’know, and we all get kissed 
by some general one time or other! Oh, I say, it’s good 
to be here! There are a couple of chaps with .me— 
Yanks, Granddad. My grandfather, fellows,” he said 
to the two khaki-clad young men, who had followed 
him slowly up the steps. “He’ll be good to you.” Charles 
led the way through the great door, inside which a 
group of servants waited for a word of greeting from 
Master Charlie. 


[285] 


“How are you, Godolphin?” he said to the butler. 
Godolphin had tears of joy in his eyes and a quaver in 
his voice, as he spoke his welcome to the young heir of 
Donham Manor. 

“Gregory. Mary. Susan. Where’s Mrs. Braden?” he 
demanded, as he shook hands with the devoted servi¬ 
tors. “Oh, there you are!” as the housekeeper, dignified 
in her black silk dress came forward. 

“And glad to see you safe at home again, sir. We all 
are, the same as his lordship! Eh, but he’s been difficult, 
these last two days, waiting for your arrival! ” 

“Dear old chap. He has had some hard knocks, and 
he’s old for that; but we’ll try to cheer him up! The 
war is over, thank God!” 

“Thank God for His goodness, indeed sir!” 

“But, where is Nana, Mrs. Braden? My homecoming 
won’t be complete, if I have caught her away. Don’t 
tell me—” he broke off suddenly. 

“Oh, no, sir! She’s got a bad bit of rheumatics, that’s 
all. She’s looking for you to come to her room, sir.” 

“And that I will, right away. I brought a couple of 
friends home, Mrs. Braden. Have Susan fix things for 
them, please. 

“Granddad treating you right, you fellows? How 
about a ‘spot’ right now? Then I’ll have to tear myself 
away to see an old lady upstairs, who tried to bring me 
up as a gentleman, poor soul! 

[ 286 ] 


“Godolphin, we’d like a whiskey and soda, some¬ 
where near a roaring fire.” Thrusting a hand under 
his grandfather’s arm, he led the way across the Great 
Hall, with the wide beautiful stair that swept up and 
across it. 

Dimly gleaming from shadowed corners old suits of 
armor stood, as though those who had worn them still 
held vigil over the honor of their house. Heavy red bro¬ 
cade drapery hung at doors and windows. Through a 
low door at the rear, they entered a small, cheery room, 
gay with bright chintz, the walls a soft apple green. A 
fire danced on the hearth. Beyond the leaded panes of 
the bow window, grey spirals of mist eddied up from 
the silver ribbon of water, over tiers of terraced gardens. 

One of the two other young men crossed over to the 
window and stood looking out, over the gardens down 
to the river. On his face was a bewildered, doubting 
expression. 

“Granddad,” said Charles, settling the old gentleman 
comfortably in his chair, “did these silly asses tell you 
their jolly names? This one sitting here is John Dun¬ 
ham. That one staring out into the gardens is Francis 
Denham. Odd, isn’t it? Of course, we just naturally 
gravitated together—but I must have written you about 
it—Will you excuse me a moment?” he rattled on. 
“Must run up to see Nana, you know. Be back in a 
minute.” And off he dashed. 

[ 287 ] 


Charles Donham had been barely sixteen when he 
had joined the flying corps a year ago, just after the 
second of his two brothers had been killed at the front. 
His father, colonel of a famous regiment—one of Eng¬ 
land’s “Old Contemptibles”—had gone in the first year 
of the war. So now he and his old grandfather were 
the last of an old family whose roots went deep into 
English history. The two Americans were attached to 
the flight squadron to which Sub-Lieutenant Donham 
had been assigned, and had taken an immediate liking 
to the blonde, young English lad with a name so similar 
to both of theirs. 

Francis Denham had come from a Southern state 
proud of its aristocratic French and English ancestry. 
John Dunham, true to the tradition of his family, had 
lost no time in answering his country’s call to arms, and 
had gone straight from his freshman year in a New Eng¬ 
land college. They had trained at the same air-school, 
been assigned to the same flying unit, and contrary to 
all records, had both come through unscathed. 

Lord Donham deliberately and slowly clipped the end 
of his cigar, studying John Dunham’s face as he held 
a lighted match for him. He was struck by the simi¬ 
larity in the looks of these three boys. They might easily 
have been taken for brothers, their features were so alike. 

“So all you lads have names curiously alike? Strange 
that ye should have met together, out there in France!” 

[ 288 ] 


Before John could reply, Francis Denham swung 
away from the window, saying abruptly as he did so: 

“Strange, sir? Yes, but this is stranger! Why, I know 
this place! I think I could find my way almost any¬ 
where in it! It’s—it’s—” 

“How’s this? What do ye mean?” snapped the old 
man. 

“Why, sir,” answered Francis, “It’s my own home all 
over again! The Great Hall, only we have no armor 
in ours; this room; the gardens out there terraced down 
to the river; the rose-colored brick of the house. And 
now tell me, am I right? Through the great doors to 
the left of the hall, one goes through the reception 
rooms. Beyond them is the library, built to the ceiling 
with bookcases. Its windows, too, are bayed out like 
this, but of stained glass with a coat of arms blazoned 
in the center. To the front is a wide corridor, and at 
the end, running the depth of the house, is the dining 
room.” 

“The banqueting hall—yes, yes, that is so. What of 
the other side?” 

“We have only one side left, sir. The other was de¬ 
stroyed during the War of the Confederacy. Wait! That 
reminds me, there’s an odd story connected with that—” 

“What’s the yarn?” asked Charles, returning as sud¬ 
denly as he had left, “I say, young-fellow-me-lads, how’s 
the giddy effect?” He advanced into the room. He had 

[ 289 ] 


discarded his blue aviator’s uniform for a tweed suit 
whose sleeves and trousers were both considerably too 
short, mute reminders of the schoolboy who had gone 
away. “A relic of the days of my youth! Is Denny there 
giving us a yarn? What is it? You all look as though 
something was a bit strong for you. Even Johnny over 
there. He rather scorns us as rattle-pates!” 

“Cut out the ragging, Babe, this is really interesting,” 
answered John. “It sounds as though Denny has an 
American duplicate of your ancestral castle—” 

“Oh, hold on a bit, this isn’t the ancestral castle! This 
is sort of Tudor, you know; the castle is just a windy old 
ruin over on a hill across the river. I’ll take you there 
one day.” 

“Charles!” ejaculated the old gentleman, a bit testily, 
“hold your tongue! I think this will be interesting to 
all of us, if you will give someone else an opportunity 
to talk! But, I am an old man. Too much excitement 
tires me I find. After dinner we will take your friends 
into the Long Gallery, and the ballroom. It may be 
there will be something of further interest to you, Lieu¬ 
tenant Denham.” He rose and bowed to them with an 
old-fashioned formal courtesy. They accompanied him 
to the foot of the staircase, watched him slowly ascend; 
and then with one accord they all three turned toward 
the door. 

John looked at his wrist watch. “How about the 
[ 290 ] 


ancestral castle, Babe? Is it near enough to take a look- 
see, before dinner?” 

“Right-o, it’s only a few miles, and if my old gas 
wagon is still able to go, we could make it. There is a 
glorious view from Hugh’s Tower; it will be a bit dark 
to explore much, though I doubt if it would be dark 
enough for the ghost—” 

“Now, Babe, don’t tell us you are going to pull that 
one!” protested John. 

“That’s all right, Johnny, old boy!” put in Francis. 
“You are a rigid old Puritan. No self-respecting ghost 
would dare appear for you in an old castle, only beauti¬ 
ful ma’am’selles in French chateaux!” 

John flushed to the roots of his fair hair. The other 
two laughed gleefully. John had been chased by a Ger¬ 
man plane one day. After escaping, he had made a 
forced landing in the garden of a chateau behind his 
own lines, where he had been found by the young 
daughter of the house. Thereafter any excuse was suffi¬ 
cient to take him back, and it was a source of constant 
amusement to his two friends. 

“Speaking of ancestral things in general,” he said, 
talking to cover his embarrassment, “did I ever tell you 
of the beautiful star sapphire Mademoiselle Huguette 
wears? It is an old family jewel. She calls it the Star 
of Bethlehem. I have never seen a more beautiful thing!” 

As they talked, they had followed the curving drive- 
[ 291 ] 


way that led around a low hill to the rambling, stone 
stables. On they went under a wide arched gateway 
into a paved court with a great stone watering trough 
in the middle. The hands of the clock set in the gable 
of the building pointed to six. Charles pulled a bellrope 
as they passed through the gate, and a stable boy came 
to meet them. 

“Hello, you’re young Hobson, aren’t you?” asked 
Charles. “Know anything about my old car?” 

The lad grinned, and touched his forehead in salute, 
“Yessir, it’s all a-waitin’ for you. We’m knowd you’d 
be a’wan tin’ o’ it as soon as you came home!” 

“Get it, please,” said Charles. “You know, fellows, 
this car of mine is the only one in the family! Grand¬ 
dad thinks they are an abomination!” 

In a few minutes the three were roaring down the 
driveway in the low swung roadster, out through the 
great iron gateway, along the lane to the village, and 
across the bridge over the river. A blacksmith’s shop 
stood by the road, where a narrow path wound upward 
through the dense growth of trees. At one hand the 
hillside sloped steeply to the river and meadows below. 
On the other rose a rocky, precipitous wall, topped by 
a grim old ruin. 

The brakes shrieked as the car came to a standstill 
before the ancient gatehouse that blocked the road. 
Charles produced a huge old key. Putting it into a great 

[ 292 ] 


iron lock in the small door in the center of the massive 
gates, he turned it with some difficulty, and pushed the 
door open. They went in, the building smelled damp 
and earthy, and was so dark that at first they could 
hardly see. But they felt their way through to a narrow, 
curving stone stairway, built in the thickness of the wall 
and lighted by only a slit in the masonry. John stepped 
into the embrasure, and looked out through the slit. 

“Bully place for a sniper!” he said. 

“Just what it was for,” answered Charles, “only they 
sniped with a long bow and arrows in those days! We 
used to have great games here, Josse, Gil and I and some 
of our friends, playing we were knights of old. You 
remember the day we came down in the fog in that 
little cove on the Normandy coast, and I told you the 
story of one of our early Norman ancestors, who res¬ 
cued his foster father? It was somewhere right down 
there that they were fighting, I imagine. At least we 
always thought so.” 

They had come out into a large low-ceilinged room, 
with thick walls, bowman’s slits to the front, and two 
windows facing the court. “This was the guard room, 
probably.” 

They walked around, examining the antique winches 
and massive chains that raised and lowered the port¬ 
cullis. 

“What a floor!” said Francis. “What’s the idea of 

[ 293 ] 


having the holes in it? It would be a bully way to break 
a leg! Why, they are right over the passage—road— 
whatever you call it!” 

“Yes, if an enemy got past the portcullis, and into the 
causeway, we just gave them a shower of boiling oil 
or lead through these little slots! ” 

“Lawsy! The original sprinkler system! Talk about 
poison gas, we haven’t got so much on them, after all!” 

Another flight of stone steps brought them out on the 
broad, flat top of the gatehouse. From the parapet, they 
looked down over the treetops, to the wide meadows 
threaded with the silvery river. They could see the little 
village of Donham Rising, Donham Court, and farther 
up the river, the broken arches of the ruined abbey of 
St. Cross. Behind it all were the rolling, purple downs 
with twilight settling over them. 

Francis left the other two there, and strolled along 
the ramparts toward the tower, which, he decided, must 
be the one Charles had spoken of as Hugh’s Tower. He 
thought amusedly of John’s scorn of the ghost, and 
wished he had asked Charles for more particulars. 

A door from the rampart led into the tower. There 
were several rooms. Francis peered into first one, then 
another. The second had several pieces of old furnish¬ 
ings in it; a great chest against one wall, a weather- 
stained old oak chair, a large carved table, worn and 
battered. A tattered rag of tapestry flapped on one wall. 

[ 294 ] 


He stood gazing at it, wondering who had been the 
last occupant of that room, and what things might have 
happened there. Through the window on the far side 
of the room, he could see a bit of the river, the eddying 
mist over it, drifting into the hollows and across the 
fields— 

A beautiful young woman turned from the window, 
her dark hair curled about her face, and hung down at 
the back of her slim neck, over her wide lace collar. Her 
gown was as mistily grey as the drifting vapor above 
the river. There was a look of great joy on her face, 
and her hands were stretched out toward him. A soft 
voice seemed to drift by him: 

“Francis, Francis, at last you have come!”— 

The chilly fall breeze blew through the room. Fran¬ 
cis’ hands were clenched so hard the finger nails seemed 
to cut into his palms. No one was there. His imagina¬ 
tion was playing him tricks! This old place brought a 
memory of an old miniature at home! Francis shook 
himself. Though he had an uneasy feeling about leaving 
that room, he squared his shoulders and pulled his uni¬ 
form coat down, as though about to face a superior 
officer. 

“About face! March!” he said aloud, then he heard 
Charles’ cheery voice calling him: 

“I say, Denny! Where are you? Oh, here’s where 
you got to. Didn’t see the ghost, did you? A woman in 

[ 295 ] 


grey, who stands at the window and wrings her hands 
and sobs. Wish there was time to take you down to see 
the dungeon, but we’d best be cutting along or we will 
be late for dinner.” 

They made their way down the crumbling stairway 
in the tower, through the ruins of what once had been 
the Great Hall of the castle, and across the grass grown 
court or lower ward, to the gatehouse. A few minutes 
later the roadster was snorting its way down the path. 

Dinner in the dark oak-panelled dining hall was over 
and the table had been cleared. Old Lord Donham sat 
back in his stately chair, listening to Charles and John, 
as they told him of a fight high in the clouds. But Fran¬ 
cis was lost in his thoughts of this old room, so like the 
one he had known all his life. Candlelight shone on the 
long table, candles glowed from the walls. 

Francis turned his head. Behind Lord Donham’s 
chair over the fireplace, hung a full-length portrait of 
the old nobleman painted some twenty or thirty years 
ago. At the opposite end of the room was another por¬ 
trait—Charles’ father in the brilliant uniform of a 
Guards regiment. 

Francis remembered that at home the portraits hung 
much the same way. His grandfather was in a similar 
position to that of Charles’ father—a young man, a gay, 
dashing cavalier of Lee’s army of the Confederacy, who 
had gone gaily forth to war never to return. He was 
[ 296 ] 


painted in his gold-braided grey uniform, with a deep 
crimson sash, his hand resting on the jeweled hilt of a 
Sword, the same Sword that was hidden safely in his 
kit bag! It was a crazy thing to have brought that with 
him, but somehow he’d had to! It was odd nobody 
at home had mentioned its absence, but tradition said 
it always went to war with the son of the house. 

The Luc\ of the House! He had often wondered 
about it, for the family luck had failed that last time, 
when the Sword had been brought home to a lonely 
little boy in a ruined home. Or had it failed? That 
lonely little fellow had grown up into his splendid fa¬ 
ther, who had brought back prosperity to his people, 
to the old Negroes of the place, yes even to the town 
near which their home stood, perhaps to an extent that 
it had awakened the State itself. 

And over the fireplace there hung in River Lea House 
an old painting, blackened and scorched in spots from 
the disastrous fire that had destroyed the right wing of 
the house. A slim, white hand rested on the hilt of the 
Sword. Queer how the Sword kept coming to Francis’ 
mind. And the handsome, haughty face of the first 
Francis Denham, the man who had planned and started 
River Lea, still smiled out, triumphantly withholding 
the secret of his origin. Perhaps this was the clue— 
this older house so like his own! 

He started suddenly from his reverie. The others 

[ 297 ] 


were rising, and Godolphin was holding back the por¬ 
tieres. They passed down the wide corridor, across the 
Great Hall lighted by many candles. A huge deer¬ 
hound lying with his nose between his paws, his eyes 
fixed on the entrance, rose and stalked to the side of 
his master, whose hand touched his head caressingly. 
On they walked through a dark arched passage into 
the Long Gallery. This too was lighted with many 
candles, whose soft, mellow light was reflected in golden 
pools on the polished old wood of floor and panelling. 

“Don’t you have electricity anywhere in the house, 
Lord Donham?” asked John. 

“No! A garish thing! Spoils old houses. Wouldn’t 
have electric lights. There is electricity installed in the 
kitchens and the stables; but not here, not while I am 
alive! ” 

From the walls of the Gallery, men, women, and 
children gazed serenely, endlessly out into the room. 
There was generation after generation of Donhams. 
They were the people who had lived here with only one 
break, the ten years when England had been ruled by 
Parliament under Oliver Cromwell. After this Charles 
the Second had given back the Manor to Anthony 
Donham, the son of the man who had fought for his 
father. 

On the wall close at hand, was a large painting of 
three little boys, handsome sturdy little chaps in socks 

[ 298 ] 


and sailor suits. Next to it was a portrait of a beautiful 
young woman. 

“That is my mother,” said Charles, gentle voiced. 
“The next one is my two brothers and myself. Gil 
went down in the battle of Jutland, Jocelyn went west 
on the Somme, just a year ago. We were awf’ly good 
pals— 

“This,” he went on, moving down the long wall, “is 
a great-uncle who was with Nelson at Trafalgar. We 
rather run to the sea. There was one who sailed with 
Sir Francis Drake. But I am stealing your thunder, 
Granddad! ” 

“Go on, go on! It was my uncle Charles who was 
at Trafalgar.” 

“Oh, yes sir. And it was your brother David who 
was with General Havilock in India, wasn’t it? This 
is he in the red coat. Think of fighting in a costume 
like that! This lovely lady in white satin is of the 
Stuart time. I think it is a Van Dyck, isn’t it, Grand¬ 
dad?” 

The old man nodded his fine, white head. Francis 
Denham drew a deep breath. It was only canvas and 
paint. But the beautiful dark eyes seemed to smile out 
a welcome to him from under dark curls that clustered 
about her face and hung down on her wide lace collar. 

“She is a ‘lovely lady’! Just who is she?” he managed 
to say, though his voice sounded unnatural. 

[ 299 ] 


“Oh, she’s the woman whose ghost weeps for her lost 
husband up in the castle!” laughed Charles. 

“Charles, don’t be ridiculous! These are the portraits 
I have a feeling that you may be interested in, Lieutenant 
Francis Denham! ” The old man’s voice was grave and 
impressive. “This was the Lady Daphne Lovell, the 
wife of Francis Donham, the heir of Donham. He was 
an ardent Royalist, and was reported killed at Naseby. 
His wife died from exposure and shock in the old keep, 
where she had fled to escape from a Parliamentarian 
raid. Their son, a mere child, was found and brought 
up by an old uncle, the estate being given back to him 
on the restoration of the monarchy. 

“Now among some old family papers, there is a story 
that some of the tenants claimed that Francis Donham 
came back to the Manor after the battle of Naseby, 
looking for his family, only to find the place had been 
sacked by the Cromwellians, and his people dead, or 
missing. He disappeared again, and nothing further 
was ever heard of him. And with him disappeared one 
of the ancient treasures of the house. The portrait over 
the mantel, on the opposite side of the room, is he.” 
His keen old eyes watched Denham’s face, as they turned 
to the portrait of which he spoke. 

Denny whitened a little under his heavy tan, as his 
look met the look on the handsome, arrogant face of 
the portrait. It was a familiar face, younger and gayer 

[ 300 ] 


than the one he had wondered about so many times. 
Denny’s gaze moved downward. A slim, white hand 
rested easily under its fine lace ruffles, on the jeweled 
hilt of a Sword. Denny turned on his heel, and started 
for the door, regardless of the others. 

“What is it, Denham? Where are you going?” Lord 
Donham’s voice was surprised, and curious. 

“The Sword, sir,” answered Francis, simply, “I was 
just going to my room to get the Sword!” He was 
utterly unconscious of his two friends, who were looking 
at him in surprised silence. 

“The Sword? The Luc\ of the House! Here, now! 
What makes you think you have the same Sword?” 

“Why, sir, it is. Just as your Lady Daphne, is the 
lady of a miniature at home! And that name you used; 
we have always called the Sword, the Luc\ of the House, 
though there seemed to be no particular reason that I 
know of. I will get it.” He was gone from the room, 
and was running up the stair, two steps at a time. 

“Granddad, you certainly staged a pretty piece of 
drama! What made you think of it? The name, or his 
story of his home?” 

“Both, I think, but it was also his strong resemblance 
to this picture. Though the Sword was something far 
beyond my imagination. 

“And now, sir,” he said to John, standing silent, smil¬ 
ing, “have not you too, a link in this strange story? 

[ 301 ] 


For your name also is only a matter of a letter misplaced 
or hastily written at some time, perhaps.” 

“Well, you see, I knew most of it. My grandfather 
was interested, and has often told me the story, when 
I was a little chap. He had a diary, written by John 
Dunham, or Donham. He went to America with the 
Pilgrims in 1620, because of his sympathy with the so- 
called Puritans in their persecution by Charles the First 
and Archbishop Laud. He must have been a brother 
of that Royalist ancestor, for whose sword Denny has 
gone upstairs. The sword my grandfather saw in a por¬ 
trait that he rescued from Denny’s grandfather’s burning 
home, during the Civil War. He was here once also and 
saw this painting, and so connected the whole thing.” 

“He was here, in this house? By Jove! Why then, 
did he not speak? How utterly incomprehensible!” 

“Not at all, sir. We are very proud of being Ameri¬ 
cans, really!” 

Francis came back through the door, carrying a slim, 
long roll of gray cloth, which he laid on a table, and 
proceeded to unwrap. The other three drew close and 
watched, with an interest too deep for words. The re¬ 
moval of the wrapping disclosed a chamois case, from 
which Francis drew the Sword. 

Its scabbard was of silver, inlaid with gold arabesques. 
The gold hilt was set in a curious design, with rubies, 
emeralds and one single large diamond. It lay there, 

[ 302 ] 


twinkling in the radiant light of dozens of candles— 
back in the room from which it had been taken by that 
other Francis, so many, many years ago. 

The old man bent to examine it: “Wonderful, won¬ 
derful!” he muttered, “after all these years!” And lift¬ 
ing his fine old silvery head with its keen eagle profile, 
he stood erect facing his grandson, and laid a hand on a 
khaki-clad shoulder of each of the two young Americans. 

“Thank God,” he said, reverendy, “there are still 
three sons of the house of Donham! The Luc\ has 
come back!” 

And Denny looked across at Charles: “But she 
didn’t weep, Charlie. She smiled! ” he said. 



[ 303 ] 

























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